


Salvation is a Last Minute Business

by speedgriffon



Series: Salvation is a Last Minute Business - Noir AU [1]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, F/M, Friendship/Love, Historical Easter Eggs, Injury Recovery, Large supporting cast - Freeform, Loss, Minor Character Death(s), Noir AU, Oral Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Spoiler Characters Have Not Been Tagged, Spoiler Tags in Chapter Notes, Tags to be added, Vaginal Sex, Walking Spoiler Characters, established relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:49:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 19
Words: 114,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23291230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: 1958--Boston, Massachusetts. One year after witnessing her husband’s murder, Madelyn Hardy is struggling to survive in a city full of political corruption and crime. Together with Nick Valentine, the two investigate a string of mysterious disappearances and work to take down Eddie Winter’s reign of terror. But who, or what is really pulling the strings in the shadows? And who is the mysterious spy that’s been following Madelyn as she draws closer to the truth? In this town, everybody is looking for redemption. (A Fallout Noir AU)“Salvation is a last-minute business, boy.” -  Reverend Harry Powell as played by Robert Mitchum (The Night of the Hunter, 1955)COMPLETE
Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor, Female Sole Survivor & Nick Valentine, Female Sole Survivor/Sole Survivor's Spouse (past), Nick Valentine/Jennifer Lands (background)
Series: Salvation is a Last Minute Business - Noir AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674994
Comments: 338
Kudos: 100





	1. Prologue: You’re Dead. Lay Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short introduction to set up this AU, but the actual chapters will be much longer. Enjoy!
> 
> 🎵: _Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas_ – Bing Crosby

_“Nobody’s your pal now. You’re dead. Lay down.” -_ Charlie as played by John Kellogg (Johnny O’Clock, 1947)

* * *

**December 24 th, 1956**

Boston Common.

A sprawling network of tourist attractions and bars, beautiful parks and scenery—it was an idyllic place as any for couples to spend their holiday. It was picturesque, with the fifty-foot Christmas tree standing near the frozen-over pond’s edge, lights sparkling over the skating residents. Hot cocoa vendors strolled with their carts as a soft dusting of snow fell from the evening sky. It was beautiful—something out of a Hallmark greeting card. It was _safe_.

That all was about to change.

“Madelyn James—attorney at law,” Nate’s voice was jubilant as he read over the small, embossed business card, thumb brushing over the bolded name. “Still think you should’ve gone with _Maddie Hardy_ —catchier.”

Madelyn regarded her husband with a fond smile, still unsure of what she thought of this gesture. “It’s all a bit preemptive, don’t you think? I haven’t even passed the bar—”

“ _Yet_ ,” he interrupted, pressing the eggshell colored card into her palm. “Two more weeks, after the new year, and you’ve got it in the bag, babe.”

She smirked, tucking the paper away in her front coat pocket. “This isn’t your Christmas present, is it?” she teased, looping her arm around his elbow as they walked along the sidewalk. “I saw that big box in the laundry room the other day…”

Nate raised his eyebrows up, feigning surprise as he glanced down at her. “It’s just an empty box. Nothing to get excited about. I’m going to use it to ship you away to _Paris_ so you can finally learn how to cook like you’ve always wanted to— _ahh_!”

Madelyn playfully smacked his arm as she pulled away from him, the two laughing at his tease. Earlier in the afternoon, she had burnt the Christmas Eve roast, but the apple pie had survived the oven unscathed. Full on sweets, the two decided to drive out into the city for a late-night meal at their favorite diner before taking a romantic stroll in the park. She giggled as he grabbed her hand again, twirling her back into his embrace. This time she was facing him, flush against his chest and angled her chin up to stare into the dark green eyes she had fallen for as a lovestruck teenager.

“Oh, you better kiss me, Mister James,” she breathed, gripping her hand into his coat to steady herself on her toes to reach his height. She wasn’t always one for public displays, but where they were, on the eastern side of the Common where most businesses had closed for the evening, they could go unnoticed.

He grinned, free hand appearing to hold the side of her face, fingers dancing through her light blonde curls. “Yes, I better, Mrs. James.”

There really was no sweeter sensation that Madelyn could ever compare her husband’s kisses to. Every kiss still made her toes curl like it was the first time, like she was a nervous sixteen-year-old sneaking out from her bedroom window for a secret liaison. Every caress still made her heart race, every touch exciting—it was thrilling to know that after ten years of marriage, a simple kiss could still be _everything_. She didn’t want it to end.

“How cute.”

Madelyn dismissed the voice that echoed behind her, only pulling away when she felt Nate hesitating to continue their little escapade. She felt him tense, turn and tuck her behind his back but she stubbornly fought to see what he was so spooked about. A chill electrified her, and her throat tightened with the taste of bile and fear at what she saw. A man—tall and broad shouldered, dressed in military garbs and a leather jacket, shaved head and a long scar that crossed over his left eye. In his hand, hanging by his side, he gripped a large gun.

“Whatever you want, we’ll give it to you,” Nate offered quickly, trying to stay calm. Madelyn tightened her grip on his arm, clenching her teeth as she breathed out so she could stay focused. If they followed the man’s orders, they would make it out with their lives. Except the mugger didn’t seem interested in whatever was in Nate’s pockets or the contents of Madelyn’s purse.

“I’d like you to beg for your life,” he said slowly, in a low voice that had Nate gripping Madelyn’s hand so tight she thought he might break her bones out of sheer terror.

“Excuse me?” Nate responded, confused rather than defiant. 

The gruff man took a half step closer, this time raising his gun so it was level with their heads. “You heard me. I want you to _beg_.”

Nate reluctantly let go of Madelyn’s hand as he raised his arms to the air, spreading his fingers wide in a defensive stance. She copied, trying to stay where she was half-hidden behind her husband until their captor motioned for her to come forward. She hesitated, sharing a silent look with her husband, ultimately deciding it was best to follow through with the demands, even if they were starting to sound unhinged. Dread settled in her gut as her heart fluttered wildly against her ribcage.

“On your knees.”

“No!” Nate took a half step forward to protest, voice wavering. She didn’t need to see her husband’s face to know that he had begun to cry, wondering if she was too well in shock to do the same. She followed the stern directions, lowering herself to the concrete where the snow began to dampen her dress and stockings.

Madelyn assumed the request was of a sexual nature but instead the man sneered down at her, gun aimed perfectly at her head. His fingers ghosted across her scalp, tangling through her hair before he yanked out a few strands, causing her to yelp.

He chortled. “I prefer brunettes.”

Nate’s resolve must’ve broken—military training kicking in—either way, he leapt forward, forcing the gunman’s arm upwards as they stumbled into the street. Madelyn pushed herself to her feet, rubbing at her temple as she looked on. Her husband landed a punch against the assailant’s jaw but earned a swift elbow to the gut in return, the two twisting and writhing over the weapon. And then it happened. With one swift shove, their attacker pushed Nate away, nearly sending him toppling. In the created space, Madelyn saw a flash of silver and shouted in unison with the deafening gunshot.

Silence.

She looked at the shooter, at the smoking barrel and at the menacing grin she’d never forget for the rest of her natural life. He was gone before Nate collapsed to the ground, blood pooling rapidly from the wound in his chest. Madelyn was at his side in an instant, gripping his hand tightly in her own as she inspected the injury. But the blood staining the street and snow was far too much, spilling out of him at a rate that no emergency room doctor could fix. A choking sob rattled her body at the stunning realization that he was dying. Nathaniel James— _Nate_ —her husband of ten years lay dying in her arms.

“Hey, _hey_ ,” he struggled, sputtering out the blood from his mouth. The bullet had likely punctured his lung. Madelyn gasped, reaching up to wipe away the red, uncaring about the stains on her gloves, on her skin, on her dress—she’d never wash them, never wear them again. “Don’t—”

“Stop,” she hushed, shaking her head, biting back her tears. She smoothed a hand across his auburn hair, glancing up for a moment to see if anyone— _anybody_ —had witnessed their nightmare. Surely somebody had heard the gunshot and had called the police? Why didn’t she hear sirens? “Oh _God_ ,” she lamented, closing her eyes tight.

“No, no. Look at me,” Nate barely whispered, fingers squeezing the best they could around her own. They were already so cold. “Maddie, look at me.”

She did. She would make sure the last thing he saw was her face, her bright blue eyes locked on his. Despite it all, she forced a smile through her tears, leaning close to press a soft kiss to his temple. “I love you, Nate.”

There was one last rattling breath that fell from his lips. “ _Maddie_ …”

The life faded from Nate’s eyes. Madelyn turned her head to the sky and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A crime mystery set in the 1950s this may be, but I really wanted to incorporate some elements of the Fallout universe while keeping with the historical accuracy. So you’ll see some non-1950s technology like handy-robots, etc. (aka spoilers). That being said, it is an alternate universe, so the author’s handwave trope also applies. You’ll also notice some light in-game dialogue now and then, but I’ve tried to keep it extremely brief. There are also references to in-game quest lines (dressed up to make sense in this AU), so consider this your warning for spoilers if you haven’t played the game. Finally, history buffs will enjoy easter-eggs sprinkled throughout; please enjoy the fruit of my extensive research labor.
> 
> Readers of my old fics may recognize some reworked scenes from my Pre-War AU, “Wonderful You Came By.” As I had/have no plans to finish that (sorry), I felt like scavenging the bones of what I had.
> 
> You can find the Spotify playlist for this story [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4PttB3jJ7zIGUlD0THAfbc?si=nOgAoSYKTNeZ-7ch2H9Qfw)!
> 
> Regular updates start Tuesday! Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	2. That Dame Upstairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later, on the anniversary of Nate’s death, Madelyn is still struggling emotionally. Nick Valentine, her friend and partner, celebrate Christmas together, and begin work on a string of disappearances that may be connected to crime boss Eddie Winter with the help of reporter Piper Wright. On New Year's Eve, Madelyn gets the first hint that she may already be in too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵: _You Send Me_ \- Sam Cooke  
>  _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ \- Doris Day 🎵

_“I was thinking about that dame upstairs, and the way she had looked at me, and I wanted to see her again, close, without that silly staircase between us.”_ – Walter Neff as played by Fred MacMurray (Double Indemnity, 1944)

* * *

**  
July 6 th, 1946**

_Shelly’s Shake Shack always had a peculiar smell, Madelyn thought. Like the busboys used too much bleach when wiping down the tables or there was too much acetone in the paint swiped across the vinyl finish of the bar. Regardless of the questionable scent, it was her and Nate’s go-to spot, their tradition ever since sneaking out that one fateful night in sophomore year of high school. When she thought about it now, just five days after her eighteenth birthday, and with college on the horizon, the niche atmosphere felt very nostalgic._

_“What are you thinking about?”_

_Nate had his elbow up on the countertop, cheek pressed into his palm as he gazed at her. His eyebrows waggled suggestively, green eyes bright as they danced across her face. Madelyn could only laugh, though his question harkened a million thoughts to bounce through her mind, struggling to land on a specific one._

_“Everything,” she decided to answer, piquing his interest._

_“Oooh,” he cooed, sliding closer so his shoulder bumped hers. “I hope that includes me.”_

_Madelyn didn’t humor him with an answer, hiding her bashful grin behind her menu. It hardly mattered that she always ordered the same thing every time—a strawberry milkshake with a small stack of ‘shack fries’ for dipping. Soon enough, the handsome man she called her boyfriend peeked over the laminated edge, beaming smile distracting her from the candy red lettering she wasn’t even trying to read._

_“You seem to be thinking of something,” she commented, noting the rosy color on his cheeks and how they accented his barely-there freckles. “Care to indulge?”_

_Nate shrugged, playing coy. He was staring at her, a pastime of his that he could make a career out of, if he wasn’t already committed to joining the Army now that he was of age. His expression softened, eyes slowly blinking, trancelike. She was about to ask him again when he spoke._

_“We should get married,” he said it with such casual gumption that Madelyn didn’t catch what he said at first. “Maddie?”_

_She did a doubletake of where he sat on the barstool next to her, twisting left-to-right as he faced her silence. The sound of her heart pounding in her chest echoed in her ears but she was more dumbfounded than nervous. “What? Is that a real proposal?”_

_“Why wouldn’t it be?”_

_Suddenly her mind went quiet and she was unable to produce an answer for a second time, but for a completely different reason—she was speechless. Madelyn gaped, utterly gob-smacked at his calm and relaxed demeanor. Only then did she think to question him, call his bluff one more time._

_“Do you even have a ring?” she asked, almost defiantly, ignoring the way Nate was softly chuckling at her. “Did you even ask daddy?”_

_Nate sat upright, snatching her left hand in his as he slowly sank down to the tiled floor on one knee. “Baby, I’m no fool.”_

_Madelyn gasped, the surreal magnitude of what was occurring washing over her. He pulled a small, black velvet box from his jacket pocket and inside was a ring she had only dreamed of wearing—a silver band with two inlaid diamonds on either side of a modest, solitaire cut centerpiece—it looked like a sparkling flower._

_“My parents might not agree, but they hate everything. But my grammie always liked you, so she entrusted me with this in the hopes that you’d wear it.” His rambling explanation was the first real indication that he was absolutely petrified. Nate filled the space between them with more words. “You know, as my wife.”_

_He let out the most adorable, breathless laugh. “Madelyn Hardy, please do me the honor of becoming my wife,” he squeezed her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “Say you’ll marry me?”_

_“Nathaniel James,” she mimicked in reply, sure her cheeks would be sore from smiling so much. She reached out with her free hand to weave her fingers through his thick auburn hair before resting her fingers along his cheek. “Yes. A hundred—a million times, yes.”  
  
_

* * *

_  
_ **December 24 th, 1957 **

“Mrs. James?”

The voice pulled Madelyn from her deep trance, forcing her to blink several times as she lifted her gaze from her tightly clenched hands in the skirt of her dark-blue dress to the circle of people looking at her expectantly. Embarrassment settled in when she realized she had zoned out during the meeting, falling into another memory from the past she was desperate to cling to. That wasn’t the first time she had drifted away while the other widows and family members droned on about their departed loved ones, and if she continued coming to these gatherings, it wouldn’t be the last. She knew the support group was supposed to help her get over Nate’s untimely death— _his murder_ —but so far each meeting had left her feeling just as empty as that Christmas Eve in 1956.

“Mrs. James,” the counselor leading the session repeated her name and Madelyn didn’t bother to correct her—she hadn’t used Nate’s surname in months. “Would you like to share with the group?”

Madelyn swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling the insurmountable pressure of stranger’s eyes silently imploring an answer. Their stares were filled with sympathy and sadness, something she was annoyed with seeing when people looked at her. For a year straight, sorrow filled expressions was all she knew, and she was sick of it. Still, guilt over her continued silence consumed her. Since she started attending the ‘circle of misery’—perhaps a poor codename she kept to herself—she hadn’t shared her story of loss. It was wrong of her to compare her grief to the others, but selfishly, she doubted there was anyone that truly felt the pain she carried with her every agonizing day.

She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. “Not today. I’m sorry.”

The counselor was clearly disappointed, but Madelyn was relieved when she wasn’t pushed for further information. She settled back into her chair, staring past the group as another person spoke, sharing a story about his deceased wife. It was difficult to stay focused when all the stories sound the same. Somebody died, either by disease or tragically—in a car accident, in the war years ago—sometimes by suicide. A few mourned the missing—up and vanished without a trace—there was no closure for them. But nobody was processing an unsolved murder—she was alone in that anguish.

Madelyn thought about the present rather than the past in order to distract herself. She visualized how much paperwork was left on her desk at the detective agency, envisioning the stack that awaited her—at least she had her own space to work out of. When she was first assigned to the Valentine Detective Agency, she was still a legal aid for the District Attorney’s Office, a year away from graduating law school and passing the bar, a year away from watching her husband die right before her eyes. At first the assignment was handed to her as a joke to keep her busy, out of the way of ‘the boys’. Nick Valentine was considered a laughingstock to many—the police, the courts, the political bigwigs. But a friendship quickly developed between her and the grizzled gumshoe and she quickly realized that the city hadn’t isolated him out of laughter, but out of fear.

She maintained her position with the investigator after becoming an attorney, providing legal counsel on the various cases from lost kittens to grand larceny. After all, Nick had been her closest confidant after Nate’s murder, working to keep the case open when leads dried up with the Boston Police Department. The way Madelyn saw it, she needed Nick and he needed her, a kinship made over crime and punishment. Though, she knew her work ethic had been declining in recent weeks and it was too easy to blame it all on the anniversary of Nate’s death. Another year without him, another year without catching the son-of-a-bitch who ended his life. 

A chair squeaked and Madelyn snapped out of her daze to find the session around her disbanding. She forced a polite smile to her lips as others, all strangers, said their goodbyes, offering hollow condolences when they knew so little about her. Did they even know her name? What she did for a living? That she carried a gun in her purse for protection just in case the same man who killed Nate came back for her? She was pulling on her winter coat when she felt somebody looming behind her. The last thing she wanted was to be dragged into another conversation with the group leader about how she needed to _open up_ —or worse—be set up with a fellow attendee. She was already forming the excuses in her head of getting back to the office despite the hour, despite the looming holiday when hands—one warm, one cold—joined her in a familiar way, helping her tug her coat into place.

“So, _Mrs. James_ ,” Nick’s teasing tone had her spinning on her heel to face him.

Whatever alarm she felt dissipated as she took in the familiar sight of his faded brown trench-coat, the edges frayed by many years in the field. Underneath he wore his usual dark-grey suit, silver pin shining, keeping his ironed black tie in place. Tucked under one arm was his trusty fedora, just as weathered as his outerwear. He always refused a replacement, as if doing so would deter from his character—maybe he was onto something with that theory. Nick smoothed out the lapels of her coat before pulling his hands away, twisting his right hand awkwardly, probing the wrist with his left fingers. His right had long been a prosthetic, lost in the war when he was just a youth, rebuilt over time thanks to the modern marvels at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. For Madelyn, it was just another part that made Nick who he was.

“I wasn’t ready today,” she explained under his silent, scrutinizing gaze. “I know, _I know_. I promised. I’m sorry.”

Nick half-shrugged, unbothered. “You don’t have to apologize to me, doll.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, gathering her handbag from the community table. It didn’t matter that he knew she came to these meetings, knew all about the demons she struggled to face in her day-to-day. He had his own life outside the agency—it wasn’t always broken leads and dead ends. 

“It’s Christmas Eve Nick, shouldn’t you be at the in-laws with Jenny?”

“They aren’t my in-laws yet,” he laughed in response.

Jennifer Lands—Nick’s fiancé and one shining light in his plight to rid Boston of scum and treachery. She was a day-nurse at the New England Medical Center, who had met Nick when he was first starting out, chasing ambulances downtown. Jenny was a true Boston spit-fire—red hair and ocean eyes—tall and slender like she walked right out of a Billy Wilder picture-film. She could talk for hours on end about fashion and Hollywood gossip but just as quickly educate you on _Gray’s Anatomy_. While others might have been jealous, Madelyn saw her as the perfect match for the detective—cool and calm met fiery and hot.

“She knows where I am,” he further explained.

The realization dawned on Madelyn all over again and she sighed, disappointed, more so in herself. “I don’t need a babysitter just because today is—” she tapered off, unable to speak the words. “I just need to go home or go to the office. Stay busy. That’s what I need.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking what you needed was a _friend_.”

He always was good at calling her bluff, especially when she wasn’t feeling up to crafting an elaborate charismatic show of words to indicate otherwise. Madelyn relented with another exhale, tucking her arm around his elbow when he offered. “It’s a long walk.”

Nick tucked his fedora atop his feathered, dark-brown hair, adjusting it so it was firmly in place. “Isn’t it always?”  
  


* * *

  
Madelyn’s Cambridge apartment was modest enough for a single— _widowed_ —woman. One bedroom, one bath, a tiny living space, and a kitchen she wished was larger for entertaining guests. Even as an attorney, her wages paled in comparison to those of her male counterparts, and Nate’s military benefits hardly helped to bridge the gap. There was her late parent’s estate, but she pretended it didn’t exist—it was meant for her children—but with Nate gone, that dream seemed futile. Now, it was a last-resort safety net, just in case she royally fucked up (and if she made a mistake _that_ large, she had every right to be using foul language).

Her apartment had other _quirks_ too. The elevator never worked, the hot water ran out at the most inconvenient of times, and her next-door neighbor Myrna was too suspicious for her own good, always ranting and raving about how every stranger in the building was there to kidnap her and replace her brain with wires. It wasn’t surprising that that she recoiled anytime Nick paid a visit. The seventh floor also housed a baseball coach, a Vault-Tec salesman, and a man she only knew as Robby—but she hardly saw or spoke to them, everybody coming and going at odd hours of the night, including herself.

As soon as Madelyn and Nick passed the threshold of apartment _D_ , a sharp bark greeted them both. Dogmeat—a silly name for a German shepherd, but it was the one the collar had etched into it when she found him abandoned at the Red Rocket gas station. Madelyn had tried to track down the owners of the puppy but had no luck. Six months later, she had a full-grown dog, ever faithful to its rescuer. The furry companion had been just what she needed to help quell the lonely nights.

“Hey Dogmeat,” Nick greeted, patting the dog’s muzzle as it nudged against his pant leg. “Doing a good job protecting the lady of the house?”

The dog barked in reply even as she tutted her disapproval. “I can protect myself.”

“You know I worry about you, Madelyn.” The use of her full name had her focusing on Nick as she discarded her coat, hanging it on the nearby rack before offering to take his. He shrugged the trench off, passing his hat along with it. “We _all_ do. We just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Madelyn wondered who _‘we’_ was alluding to. She silently gestured for him to sit on the couch before circling to the kitchen, clinking together two shallow glasses as she pulled them from the cabinet. The whiskey she poured was cheap, but she knew neither of them cared, and emptied what little was left of the bottle. She handed him the frosted glass and he nodded in appreciation, biting back a wince at the fouler-than-usual taste.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she assured with a small smile, gulping down her sip of the amber liquid. “Thank you, Nick.”

He tilted his chin up in a nod, glancing up at her with his light green eyes. Under the light of her living room, they almost looked yellow. “Sure, sure.”

The two sat in amiable silence, nursing their alcohol until Madelyn noticed they’d arrived just in time to catch Jack Hynes’ broadcast on her television set. At first, the nightly report was mundane—the Red Sox charity game canceled due to snow, Mayor McDonough’s annual lighting of downtown’s Christmas tree, a runaway swan in Boston Common. But then, the broadcast took a somber turn when the screen flashed the image of an infant boy before cutting to a news conference held earlier in the day.

“…please, if you’re listening, we just want our son back,” the weeping mother turned away in her sorrow, into her husband’s chest. His voice echoed into the microphones instead. “Shaun, if you’re listening, we love you. Please come home.”

“Poor kid has been missing since ’47,” Nick interrupted, pulling Madelyn’s attention away from the screen.

She was startled by his revelation. “What?”

He took a long sip of his whiskey, holding a grim expression as he spoke. “That was my first case after coming home from the war, after the folks at MIT fixed me up,” Nick shook his head, the recollection painful in his mind. He was only seven years older than her, and yet had a lifetime of scars and memories that had aged him—made him wiser, but also bitter towards those who escaped justice. “Never could figure out who would want to steal a baby.”

“Doesn’t look like the Boston P.D. has had better luck,” she replied, knowing it was of little solace.

By the time she looked back to the TV, Hynes was speaking about the decreasing crime rate in the city proper, ironic considering the previous story. Despite the information, the next name out of his mouth had Nick on high alert.

“Eddie Winter is expected to be released from the Massachusetts Correctional Institution at Cedar Junction later this week, a full six months earlier than his originally scheduled discharge date. Department officials comment Winter’s release is due to quote, _good behavior_ , unquote. At this time, the District Attorney’s office has declined to comment on pending cases against the notorious Boston businessman.” 

“Businessman, my _ass_ ,” Nick bristled, his anger clear as he gripped the glass so tightly in his prosthetic hand she could almost hear the plastic and metal threatening to shatter into pieces. “Even the news is too afraid to call it like it is. He’s a thug. A gangster. A no-good crime boss responsible for far more than money laundering and white-collar crime.”

Madelyn couldn’t say anything to calm Nick when he was worked up like that. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before—he had been chasing Eddie Winter for years, always two steps behind the infamous mobster. Even she believed the case against him was clear cut— _cases_ —but her bosses at the District Attorney’s office said otherwise, always misdirecting with bureaucracy and politics. As the years dragged on, and the crimes and bodies began to pile up, Nick and Madelyn started to believe there was a conspiracy afoot. But alleging collusion was one thing, proving it was another. 

She poured the rest of her drink into his and he gladly shot it back—the action seemed to calm his nerves. Nick sighed, forlorn as he rested the empty glass on her coffee table with a loud clink. She already knew the answer, but she had to ask. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to catch the son-of-a-bitch.”  
  


* * *

**  
December 25 th, 1957 **

“Merry Christmas boy,” Madelyn ruffled the fur atop Dogmeat’s head, scratching his ear as he yipped in return. He was all too happy to greet her that morning, even if he looked at her inquisitively, tilting his head back and forth as she dressed for the day. Nothing extravagant, but she figured she might as well wear red, given the holiday. “I’m only going out to visit the office. Just for a little while. Maybe visit the church. _Maybe_. I’ll be back before nightfall.”

Dogmeat barked as if he understood every word. Perhaps he did, the smart dog that he was. As Madelyn passed through the hall she paused before the open storage closet, peeking inside at the contents with a frown. She had been in the process of unboxing her holiday decorations the previous week when she decided against it, unable to fathom the emotional strength. A second Christmas without Nate—this was how her life would be measured now—counting the years, how many significant dates had passed without him. Inside the small room was another unopened box, a Mister Handy robot—a Christmas gift from Nate—the _last_ gift from Nate. She couldn’t bear to open or activate it.

Before leaving, Madelyn made sure to leave Dogmeat a treat of sliced roast in his food bowl, tuning the radio to fill the quiet room with holiday music so the pup wouldn’t feel so alone. With her fur lined coat wrapped tightly around her, she left the safeguard of her apartment for the snow packed streets.

Valentine Detective Agency was just a quick taxi ride south over the Charles River bridge, a small nondescript building nestled in the Kenmore neighborhood. Nick liked to joke that if you didn’t know where you were going, caught up in the hustle and bustle of the crowds or the alluring bright green walls of the baseball stadium, you’d end up in the middle of Fenway park. But right there on Jersey Street stood the faded brick building with the red neon light, the flashing, arrow pierced heart a dead giveaway she was in the right spot.

Madelyn was only slightly surprised to find the office doors unlocked, sliding away the key back into her purse as she entered the dimly lit space. Ellie Perkins, Nick’s longtime secretary was absent, sent home for the holiday, the front room void of any visitors. Behind the receptionist’s desk were two doors, each with black lettering etched into the frosted glass panes. The one with Madelyn’s name was closed, but Nick’s was open, two echoing voices in the midst of discussion.

Inside she found the detective at his desk, suit jacket discarded over the back of his chair, tie loosened, but his fedora still firmly in place. He was shuffling through the disorganized pile of casefiles littered before him, lips wrapped firmly around a freshly lit cigarette. The full ashtray told Madelyn it had been a busy morning, or a long night. Occupying one of the armchairs in front of the oak tabletop was none other than Piper Wright, the woman who ran her own newspaper— _Publick Occurrences—_ in the office space upstairs. 

Piper had made a name for herself in Boston with her independent publication—she was no _Boston Bugle_ , and could never compete with the national affiliates, but her reputation for gathering the cold, hard truth put her in the forefront of a lot of newsreaders’ minds. It also made her a lot of enemies, sticking her nose where it didn’t belong for the next big story. Birds of a feather, as they say—she knew Nick and Madelyn could be trusted, and over the last year, the three had become good friends.

“Oh hey, Blue,” Piper greeted, glancing over the back of the chair to look at her in the doorway. Madelyn had never determined where the nickname had originated—maybe her eyes, the affinity for the color—Piper never explained. She lifted up an unfolded newspaper. “I was just reading Nicky the Christmas edition of _Publick Occurrences_. Care to join?”

Madelyn softly laughed as she peeled off her coat and hooked it over her arm before sinking into the opposite chair. Piper was leaned back, black Mary-Jane heels propped up on Nick’s desk—either he was too focused to notice or didn’t care. Her ruby-red jacket was slung over her lap along with her matching press cap—a definitive look no reporter in town could replicate.

“ _Mayor McDonough’s Police Gala: Charity or Swindle?_ —I wrote an expose on how much of the taxpayer’s money is spent on his annual New Year’s Eve party. An insider says that all that charity money that is raised isn’t even sent to the hospitals! It’s lining the politician’s coats!”

“Not surprising,” Nick mumbled between a drag of his cigarette.

Madelyn smiled to herself—what Eddie Winter was to Nick Valentine, Mayor Guy McDonough was to Piper Wright. Perhaps the main difference was that one wasn’t an outright criminal (that any of them were aware of), but the two reeked of corruption. Piper was far more vocal in her displeasure of McDonough’s actions, using her _freedom of the press_ to convey her contention.

“I can’t wait till an election year,” she sighed, tilting her head against the cushion. “Did you know his brother has started a grassroots campaign to see him kicked out of office?”

Madelyn was curious. For all her political dealings downtown, she didn’t know the mayor had a brother. Another coverup from the boy’s club? She had to clarify. “His brother?”

“John McDonough, he’s younger than the mayor, about Nick’s age. I don’t know him personally, but I admire his tenacity,” Piper grinned.

“He’s a rabble-rouser, trying to stir up trouble,” Nick commented with a grimace. “That kind of man is dangerous, if you ask me. He should leave any crusading to the professionals.”

“Are we knights now, Nicky?” Piper laughed, folding her paper away. “I could use a big pointy sword, might get some informants to start talking.”

Madelyn shook her head with a sigh. “What did I say about threatening civilians?”

Piper flashed her best Hollywood glamor-girl smile, batting her eyelashes as she flipped the back of her hand through her curled, ebony hair. “Charm first, shoot last.”

Nick blanched. “We should’ve never given her a gun.”

Piper’s heels clicked against the floor as she shifted to lean against the desk, trying to peek at any files she could see. Madelyn and Nick were careful with how much information she was privy to, friend or not. The agency wasn’t affiliated with the police— _hell_ —the Boston Police Department didn’t even give them the time of day unless they were compelled to, or on the rare occasion took pity on the gumshoe and his _lady_ sidekick. But Piper was no ordinary citizen—she had more knowledge of the city than any beat cop or tenured investigator—a valuable asset when it came to cracking cases.

“How many have gone missing this month?” she asked, glancing between the desk and Nick.

“Twelve,” Madelyn responded glumly. “Nick is convinced there’s a connection to Winter’s gang.”

“Damn,” Piper cursed, straightening. “That’s more than last month—that’s more than _last year_!”

“Which is why it can’t be a coincidence Winter is ramping up business,” Nick grumbled, stubbing out his smoke as he leaned back in his chair to look at his companions. “His underlings have been busy. Shaking down local businesses, raiding warehouses, encroaching on smaller gang territories to snuff them out. The police don’t want to link the recent gang war murders to him, but I will.”

“Damn,” Piper repeated, this time with a cautious expression. “You sure about all that? How deep have you been digging?”

Madelyn had similar concerns, but she wasn’t going to voice them in front of Piper. Instead, she allowed Nick to continue, tapping his hand against a stack of papers. She leaned forward to snatch them up before the reporter could. Scribbled in Nick’s barely legible scrawl were two words— _the Railroad_ —with a question mark beside.

“The Railroad?” she whispered, confused by what it meant.

Piper’s eyes widened, like she had won the jackpot in a Las Vegas casino. “The Railroad? Where did you hear about the Railroad?”

“Came up only recently. Had it pinned as gossip, but your reaction has me second guessing my intuition,” Nick eyed her carefully, waiting for the insider information.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she responded in a breathy laugh. “Honestly, as much hearsay as I gather about the Railroad, I can’t ever find any concrete proof they actually exist, beyond a cryptic phrase; _‘follow the Freedom Trail_ ’.”

“The Freedom Trail downtown?” Madelyn questioned, to which Piper nodded. “A tourist trap. How bizarre.”

Nick struck a match as he lit up another cigarette. “Peculiar catchphrases aside, one has to wonder if they are tied up in these disappearances. Working with Winter.”

“A shell company?” Madelyn offered, looking to Piper.

The newswoman shook her head, doubtful of the accusation. “I’m uncertain they are nefarious. Mysterious? Sure. But as evil as Eddie Winter or McDonough? I’d rather have proof in hand before drawing any conclusions.” 

“That’s saying something,” Nick dryly chuckled.

Piper didn’t linger for very much longer, leaving her newspaper for the two to finish perusing. She’d see the two in a few days, as Madelyn’s plus-two to that _reprehensible_ police gala—perhaps one good thing she was able to leverage for her and Nick from her job at the District Attorney’s office. At best, it would gain the group leads for news stories and cases. At worst, they’d be drunk on expensive champagne before _Auld Lang Syne_. Almost as soon as they were left alone, Nick produced a brand-new bottle of Irish whiskey from his desk, struggling a moment to fish for two clean glasses.

“How long have you been working?” Madelyn asked, noting the strain in his eyes.

Nick muttered something unintelligible, the smoke bobbing between his lips as he poured, pausing in after-thought to add some more. “Jenny got called into the hospital late last night, so I decided to come in. I know she’ll call me when it’s time to come home. I can celebrate Jesus’s birthday then.”

“Isn’t she Jewish?”

Nick waved his hand as he offered the glass of whiskey, a look that simply said _don’t start now_. Madelyn pursed her lips with a smile, content that there had been some humor in her day after all, if only for a moment. The whiskey was _much_ better than the swill she had served the night before, smoother as it slid down her throat in a delightful burn, hitting all the right spots. Even though they had both taken several sips, Nick raised his glass in a toast.

“Merry Christmas, Madelyn.”

“Merry Christmas, Nick.”  
  


* * *

**  
December 31 st, 1957 **

Faneuil Hall had been adorned floor to ceiling in gold and silver, balloons and streamers, glitter and confetti strewn about the historic halls. Madelyn wondered what the Founding Fathers that once gathered there would think of the gaudy decorations. Probably dump them in the Boston Harbor—they seemed to be into that sort of thing when they disapproved of something. The idea alone had her wishing Samuel Adams was there now, if only to scoff at the waste of Bostonian taxpayer’s dollars. 

Mayor McDonough’s New Year’s Eve police gala was in full swing by the time she arrived, uniformed officers and detectives gathered in the downstairs hall, basking in their glory like peacocks in a zoo. Madelyn found it all very amusing as she checked her coat, smoothing out the lines of her baby blue gown as she peered around for someone familiar. She noticed some bigwig lawyers from the District Attorney’s office that never gave her the time of day, and a few defense attorneys that were slimy enough she didn’t want to risk walking within a ten-foot radius of where they stood.

“Blue! Over here!”

Madelyn turned to find Piper, all dolled up in a floor-length, red evening gown, waving her towards the meeting hall. It had been reconfigured into a dancefloor, couples paired off as they waltzed to the live band playing on the nearby stage. The two women continued up the stairs to the overlooking balconies where by one tinsel wrapped pillar stood a penguin-suited Nick Valentine and his lady luck, Jennifer Lands.

“Ah, the woman who’s been keeping my Nicky safe when I can’t keep an eye on him,” Jenny winked, blue eyes sparkling. The dark green dress she wore was in sharp, beautiful contrast to her fiery red curls, tucked up in the latest hairstyle from the pages of Vogue. “Oh but it is good to see you, _Mads_.”

“Likewise, Jenny,” she greeted, the two sharing a warm hug and kiss on the cheek. “I do apologize for all the late nights.”

The soon-to-be Mrs. Valentine waved her hand dismissively. “Better to know where he is, fighting the good fight, than have me pacing in the kitchen wondering which sleazy bar or motel my schmuck is lost in like these poor women do.”

Madelyn tried not to laugh, avoiding the stares of the prim-and-proper officer wives that roamed around them. Piper and Jenny indulged in their amusement, gaggling like schoolchildren while Nick sighed—but even he was cracking a grin. More laughter and jokes flowed between the four, more so as a passing waiter handed each a glass of sparkling champagne. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Madelyn sensed the spark of normalcy returning. Just a glimmer beyond the lingering sorrow, but it was there, a warm little spot of hope.

“You gonna keep me hidden up here all-night Nicky boy?” Jenny suddenly teased, stepping back to gesture over her outfit. “I didn’t get all dressed up for nothin’”

He chuckled, taking both of their glasses and depositing them on the balcony. “If I’m not back before midnight, check for my corpse on the dancefloor.”

Piper shouted over the railing as the couple descended, garnering the attention of passersby’s once more. “Yours or McDonough’s?”

“You know, he ain’t that easy to kill,” a sultry drawl called from behind them and simultaneously the women turned to look at the man who was sauntering towards them. Tall and lean, with combed back blonde hair, eyes so dark they almost seemed black. He was wearing a well-tailored suit with a red tie, a golden pin on his lapel with tiny embossed letters— _of the people, for the people_. He flashed a wide, toothy grin. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

It was easy for Madelyn to note the shift in Piper’s expression—she recognized this person and the realization excited her head to toe. The reporter practically beamed as she extended her hand, quickly switching to interviewing mode. “Mister McDonough, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Piper Wright with Publick Occurrences—”

“Mister McDonough is that sleazeball over there,” he pointed downstairs to where the mayor was boasting near the stage in front of a large crowd of spectators. He took Piper’s hand, shaking it once before lifting it to his lips in some old-fashioned show of flattery. “I’m just regular ol’ John McDonough. But _you_ can call me Hancock.”

Madelyn chuckled, gaining his attention. She thought back to Piper’s previous remarks about the younger McDonough’s plans to overthrow the mayoral seat. “You can’t win an election under a moniker.”

“Who says I’m going to wait that long?” he asked, avoiding her comment. “I’m inspiring the people, making them realize he’s not the same man they voted for in ’55. Boston is under a chokehold of crime and corruption and they don’t even know it. It should be of the people, for the people, ya dig?”

“I _dig_ ,” Madelyn humored him, but as his fevered words settled in her mind, she realized he had a point. She wondered why Nick was nervous about his actions. It was her turn to introduce herself, slipping her hand into Hancock’s momentarily when he offered. He seemed to know that a kiss to the back of her knuckles was not the wisest choice. “Miss Hardy,” she greeted politely. “When did you start your…movement?”

“Fought in the war overseas and came back disillusioned with the government and the establishment,” Hancock interlaced his hands as he spoke. “Guy was already rubbing elbows, buying favors to climb his way up the ivory tower, ensuring his winning ticket to the state house. At first he offered me a seat on his counsel but there was no way he’d ever adopt my progressive views. Feeding the hungry? More money for our schools? No, my own brother kicked me out, so I’ve been fighting _the man_ ever since.”

Piper was nodding—of course she agreed with the plight to help the little people and anyone who worked to accomplish these goals was good in her book. Madelyn, however, was skeptical of anyone who talked too fast with too wide of a smile—she chalked it up to working in a proverbial shark-tank of lawyers.

Hancock noted her uncertainty with a smirk, spreading his hands in a wave. “But enough grandiose monologue, we’re here to have a good time, aren’t we?” He offered a hand to both her and Piper. “Would either of you ladies care for a dance?”

Madelyn silently deferred to Piper but extended the smooth-talking man a small grin. “I’ll have to give you a rain-check.”

“I’ll hold you to it, sister.”

Alone on the balcony, Madelyn overlooked the couples dancing in the hall below, slowing as a female voice crooned out _Dream a Little Dream of Me._ It was typical in these quiet moments that her mind drifted and that night was no different, her thoughts instantly filled of the last time she had danced with Nate. But she wasn’t melancholy, despite the tightness in her chest as she slowly swayed to the music, content to watch her friends.

“Ma’am.”

Madelyn was about to dismiss the waiter, showing off her half-full glass when she noted he was delivering something else, quickly passing off a folded note before rushing off. She turned on her heel to watch him go but lost him in the crowd, a mix of confusion and panic settling in her gut. What was happening? A phone-call? Telegram? The only people she knew in Boston, let alone _cared_ about were right there in that room. Madelyn’s suspicion only grew when she unfolded the message, looking over the four words typed on the parchment.

_You can’t trust everyone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that December 24th, 1957 was a Tuesday? Did you also know that Boston’s longest serving mayor served for 21 years? RIP Thomas Menino. I’ve taken some liberties with McDonough’s first name (never mentioned in-game), likewise with Hancock never being called ‘John McDonough’. But hey, that’s the nature of an AU, right? 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	3. How to be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a new year, and Madelyn is trying to stay busy. Hancock pays a visit to the Detective Agency with an olive branch in the guise of a case for Nick. On the beat, a former mercenary turns informant with more information about the mysterious Railroad. Nick and Madelyn track down their missing person while Eddie Winter makes his first deadly move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _King of the Road_ – Roger Miller 
> 
> Without giving much away, this is a content warning for a minor character suicide that mirrors the canon in-game side quest. Minor use of canon-dialogue.

_“Well, sure there is. It comes complete with diagrams, on page 47 of 'How to be a Detective in 10 Easy Lessons,' correspondence school text-book and, uh, your father offered me a drink.”_ \- Philip Marlowe as played by Humphrey Bogart (The Big Sleep, 1946)

* * *

**January 10 th, 1958**

Nick’s desk was covered in case files, whiskey and cigarette ash—an organized chaos was what he liked to call it, but all Madelyn saw was a fire hazard. This was the way Detective Valentine worked best, however, frazzled and hunched over his scattered notebooks, mumbling incoherently behind the wafting plumes of smoke. The agency was for many the one gleaming beacon of hope in an otherwise dark and dishonest world. Nick had proved his reputation with the people was well earned by helping the community the best he could with the limited resources he had, maintaining a network of clients that kept him in business over the years.

“Everybody deserves their fair chance,” Nick always said, so much so that Madelyn considered putting it on a plaque for his wall—if the walls weren’t covered in photos, wrinkled maps and scribbled handwritten notes.

She found it all admirable, part of the reason she agreed to work with him when initially assigned by the District Attorney’s office two years prior. She didn’t realize that by staying, she’d be forging one of her strongest friendships, discovering one of her most trusted of confidants. Yet, as Madelyn lingered in the doorway of his office, she found it difficult to find the right words to say. She wanted to tell Nick about the clandestine note she received on New Year’s Eve, tell him she felt paranoid about being followed and wanted another training session at the shooting range. Instead, she continued to worry at her bottom lip, awkwardly shuffling the small stack of papers in her hands.

“You can stand there lookin’ like a doll or you can come in here and help,” he spoke, not bothering to glance up at her. Still, she noted his little smirk, eyes lit up as he scrawled away on his notepad.

“I know you didn’t hire me to be a pretty face,” Madelyn bantered, knowing it was all in good, clean fun. She crossed the small space, planting herself comfortably on the cushioned seat in front of his desk. 

Nick gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “I didn’t exactly hire you. You just showed up here on my doorstep like some kitten left out in the rain.”

She laughed, thinking back to the early days of their partnership. Providing legal aid to a private detective that didn’t always play by the rules—it wasn’t the easiest of jobs for Madelyn. It wasn’t until she realized Nick was forced into the unscrupulous position by the Boston Police Department, who saw his presence as interference rather than assistance, never giving the agency the insider access they desperately needed. Perhaps if they did, there wouldn’t be so many unsolved disappearances or murders plaguing the city. That being said, she made sure Nick stayed out of trouble, pulling in favors where she could, the two using their powers of persuasion to find answers to burning questions. It was easier to toe the line than cross it, but each day as the violence and corruption spread across the city, the line became harder to see.

“What’s on the docket for today?”

The question had barely left her lips when there was a commotion in the lobby, Ellie’s frantic voice calling out as her heels clicked across the wooden floors. “Sir, _sir_! You can’t just walk in there. You have to have an appointment and—"

“No worries, sister,” the familiar, dulcet voice approached. “They’ll be happy to see me.”

John McDonough— _Hancock_ —strolled through the doorway like he owned the place, ignoring Ellie’s protests. The mayor’s younger brother looked considerably different than he did the night of the police gala—dressed in dark slacks and half-buttoned up shirt, a faded red jacket with golden, frilled trim more suited for Halloween than streetwear. He plopped into the empty armchair, hooking his knees over one side and glancing to Madelyn with a wink.

Nick’s demeanor immediately soured. He pointed at the other man. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t have come all this way if it weren’t for nothing, Nicky boy,” Hancock grinned. “Can’t you bend an ear to an old friend?”

Madelyn focused on the detective’s expression, eyebrows knitted together in quiet contemplation as he rummaged for a cigarette before realizing he was fresh out. Hancock noticed, instantly reacting to produce a pack from his jacket pocket. He leaned forward to offer her first, but she declined with a silent wave, causing him to move to Nick. He hesitated, scrutinizing the gesture with narrow eyes before ultimately obliging.

“What are you doing here, John?” he asked, sounding more like the start of an interrogation as he struck a match.

Hancock appeared amused by Nick’s insistence on the name as he lounged back in the chair. “I have a peace offering for you. A case that the local police can’t be bothered with because of the victim’s so-called lifestyle.”

At Nick’s silence, Madelyn interjected. “What is it?”

“Missing person.”

Finally, Nick sighed, relenting. “Give us the details.”

As Hancock spoke, Madelyn wrote in her notepad, neat and succinct lines—they’d have more luck with her organization skills. The missing? Earl Sterling. Twenty-five-year-old bartender from the Fens who worked at the local sports bar across the street from Fenway Park. “Vadim, who owns the bar—close personal friend—came to me crying, thinking Earl had been snatched up by the boogeyman. But who would want to hurt Earl? He ain’t out to hurt nobody.”

Nick was nodding along, jaw clenched, clearly in frustration of another disappeared citizen. That would be thirteen—that they knew of. “And Boston P.D.? They think Earl was undeserving of a proper investigation?”

Hancock scoffed. “Friends in low places. Doesn’t matter that _he’s_ squeaky clean. But since Vadim’s a Russian immigrant, a _refugee_ that has had his run-ins with the law…”

“Of course,” Madelyn sighed, disheartened. It was a cruel underlying fact that not all Bostonians were keen to the changes the war brought. Most carried on with quiet discontent, but others were far more vocal to the point of outright bigotry. A child raised by virtuous parents, Madelyn knew better, ashamed of the city she had lived in all her life.

Nick could sense her stewing restlessness and spoke, nodding at Hancock. “We’ll take the case, track Earl down. One way or another.”

Curiosity got the better of Madelyn as she stared at the two men, sensing the lingering tension. Ever since Piper first mentioned the younger McDonough brother, Nick’s attitude had been uncharacteristically dismissive, and without explanation it was gnawing at her mind. “What’s the deal here?”

Hancock’s eyebrow arched high against his forehead. “Whatcha mean, sister?”

“The animosity in the air is thick enough that I could bottle it up and sell it as a fragrance,” she joked. “Might get rich enough that I could retire early. Buy that cabin up in Maine I always dreamed about.”

While Hancock bellowed out an impressed laugh, Nick sighed through his nose, lips set in a flat line as his cigarette dangled. Still, Madelyn knew he was amused, green eyes bright as he rolled them her way. Hancock’s entertainment settled as he crossed his arms over his chest with a final, breathless chuckle. “I’m surprised ol’ Nicky never told you about me and our time overseas.”

“You two served together?” she asked.

Nick reluctantly nodded, fingers tightening around the wrist of his prosthetic hand, the plastic-metal blend flexing. He didn’t like to talk about it—no matter how many years had passed between the end of the war and the present, it was still an open wound for many, including the detective. He balled his hand into a fist.

“London, during the Blitz,” he explained, in grim conciseness. “Was stationed in Kent in ‘41 during the bombsite recovery. As was John, though he was mostly preoccupied by the local… _entertainment_.”

Hancock hummed, with a faraway look in his eyes. “There’s something about the English accent, ya’ know?”

“You were disillusioned then, and you’re disillusioned now!” Nick suddenly snapped, hands smacked against the table as he stood up to loom over the other man. Hancock hardly looked intimidated, not even flinching as Madelyn did. “Sneaking off base to get your kicks in some back alley, coming back high as an Air Force bomber. No wonder you’re turned into a beatnik.”

“Better a beatnik than a _dick_ ,” Hancock murmured.

“Boys! _Boys_!” Madelyn stood up with a loud clap of her hands, garnering both of their attention as she stood. “ _Jesus Christ_! Do I need to put you two in separate corners for time out like the curtain-climbers you are?”

Nick scrambled to sit back down, knowing it was a rare thing for her to use the lord’s name in vain, even lightly. Hancock snickered, but flinched when she whipped her head in his direction. “I think you owe Nick an apology, Mr. McDonough.”

He shifted uncomfortably like she had asked him to perform one of Houdini’s acts. “Sorry, Valentine.”

“We’re good, John,” Nick stood again, this time reaching over to extend his hand in some display of goodwill. Hancock took the offer, shaking it with a satisfied grin. “We’ll find out where Earl is.”

As the conversation came full-circle, Hancock tugged on the lapels of his coat and smoothed out the lines of his pleated slacks. He regarded Madelyn with a toothy smile, nodding his head once. “Miss Hardy.” 

She watched as he turned on his heel, slinking out the way he came. Ellie’s disapproving voice called out to him again in the lobby as the bell above the front door chimed, signaling his exit. Miss Perkins’ usual sunny disposition was marred as she leaned into the doorway of Nick’s office, bottom lip jutted out in a frown. “Who was _that_?”

“Sorry Ellie,” Nick sighed, moving to grab his faded trench coat from the nearby rack. Madelyn smirked, knowing Jenny had purchased him a new one over the holidays—one for Hanukah _and_ Christmas—but there he was, slipping his arms into the same dusty rag. “Hopefully you won’t need to experience such indecency again.”

“Heading out?” Their secretary questioned, looking between the two of them with a shine of excitement in her features. She always liked when they were busy.

Madelyn gathered the case notes under her arm before quickly shuffling back to her own office, pulling on her cream-colored coat that was in much better condition than her partner’s. Purse and papers in hand, she met him and Ellie in the front room.

Nick was adjusting his hat. “Keep a light on for us, won’t you?” 

Ellie flashed a charming smile. “Always.”

Outside, there was a fresh blanket of snow on the sidewalk and a crisp chill in the air. Their destination was a short distance—only a few blocks east. She thought about what sparked their journey.

“Did you really mean that?” Madelyn questioned Nick as they walked in the direction of the Dugout Inn. He glanced at her, unsure of what she meant. “Disillusionment? Do you really not believe in Hancock’s cause?”

He made a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan as he rubbed at his chin. “I believe in results,” he answered, keeping his eyes focused on their path. “I’ll _believe_ it when I see it.”  
  


* * *

  
The Dugout Inn was a tiny hole-in-the-wall, located right on the corner of Boylston Street, opposite of Fenway Park. The clientele were mostly refugees, thanks to the owners, Vadim and Yefim Bobrov—immigrants from Russia who established the bar shortly after V-Day in 1945. Unassuming enough, though the two had their fair share of run-ins with Boston police over the years, mostly for expired liquor licenses or smuggling illicit moonshine. Never anything as serious as money laundering, tax evasion or _murder_. Mr. Bobrov’s good natured attitude had made him a valuable ally to Nick, perhaps even a friend, somebody the detective could turn to when searching for leads among the downtrodden and forgotten within the city.

Being a mid-morning Friday, it wasn’t surprising that the Dugout Inn was mostly devoid of patrons, save for Vadim’s twin brother and their lone waitress Scarlett who was dutifully sweeping near the back. There was _one_ daytime drunkard, however, sleeping off his hangover in a faraway booth. Yefim was balancing the books at a nearby table, muttering about needing to pay the gas bill, barely acknowledging the passing duo with a wave. As they approached the bar, Vadim was beaming, wiping the countertop before them in earnest.

“Ah, my favorite gumshoe back to see old Vadim,” he set out two glasses, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Want to try the latest batch? May not have ripened yet, but…you always had a good sense of knowing!”

Nick softly chuckled, but shook his head as he removed his hat, placing it on the bar. “I’m not going to be your guinea pig again, Vadim.”

“And what about the lovely lady lawyer? My _lapochka_?”

Madelyn smiled at his flattery but waved her hand at his offering. “No, thank you.”

Vadim went to speak but hesitated, instead scrutinizing their appearance in his bar. Sudden realization dawned in his expression as he tightened his fist into the cleaning cloth. “Are you here about Earl?”

Nick had barely nodded before Vadim continued with a sagging hang of his head. “Oh, poor Earl. Gone, just like that. Such a good bartender. Good friend,” he trailed with a forlorn expression that morphed into one of slight amusement. “Terrible with the women, mind you.”

“Always in his cups about his face getting in the way,” he further explained. “I say, no mug is too ugly for any woman! What says you, Miss Hardy?”

She joined him in laughter, humoring the old flirt. “Oh, Mister Bobrov, if you were thirty years younger you might have a decent chance at making an honest woman of me… _again_!”

Even Nick snickered, shaking his head at the exchange. But they were here on business, not for a friendly exchange of words or a casual drink. They had a man to find, sooner, rather than later. At his signal, Madelyn pulled her notepad from her purse, pencil at the ready for any information they might gleam.

“See anybody from Winter’s gang around here lately?” Nick asked, eyes narrowed when Vadim quickly shook his head, coughing to clear his throat as the tone shifted. Nick quickly glanced to Madelyn who offered a quick shrug. Maybe zeroing in on Eddie Winter wasn’t the best idea. Would Vadim even know what a mobster type _looked_ like?

“Oh!” The proprietor said excitedly, hands waving for emphasis. “A few days ago, there was this young mercenary type that I’d never seen before. Lingered about for a few days. Greaser kid that looked like he belonged to a bad crowd.”

“Did he and Earl speak?” Madelyn questioned.

Vadim shrugged, eyes glanced upwards as he remembered. “Yes? No. All I know is he looked suspicious. A—and I haven’t seen him since Earl disappeared!”

Nick was twisting his lips—a telltale sign he wasn’t entirely sure he liked the credibility of the information—but they had nothing else to go on. He tapped his finger against the counter impatiently. “Do you have a name? A location? Think _carefully_ , Vadim. For Earl’s sake.”

A moment passed as the bartender mulled it over in his head. Vadim then straightened, clapping his hands together enthusiastically. “ _MacCready_! That’s his name! Rum and cola. Overheard him mention a hotel near Scollay Square…”

“The Rexford?” Nick mused, more to Madelyn than Vadim.

She nodded. “The Rexford.”  
  


* * *

  
Scollay Square by 1958 was not the thriving center of Boston theatre and community it once was. Practically a ghost town, with most buildings boarded up after being destroyed by fire or looters, few businesses remained. The Old Howard Theatre—long shut down by the Boston vice squad stood at the epicenter like a shining reminder of the past. _Always Something Doing_ —but not anymore. The area was now known colloquially as _Goodneighbor_ , nicknamed after Mary Goodneighbor’s 1953 striptease that ended it all. Goodneighbor was a hive of sex work and drug runners, bootleggers and mobsters, all just out to make their living in the world—the perfect place for a person to disappear.

Nick decided the trip west warranted the use of his black Cadillac. They’d make better time, and even he wasn’t one to be caught walking through Boston Common—even armed—at any time of day with the increasing crime rates. As they pulled up outside the Hotel Rexford, they observed a disturbance on the sidewalk, snow flurries disrupting their view. Madelyn was exiting the vehicle before Nick could rush over to pull open the passenger door, ever the gentleman as he offered his hand to her. But she was more focused on the three men in a clear argument on the hotel steps, carefully observing the interaction as she hooked her elbow around Nick’s arm.

“Well, we’re outside now!” The scrawnier of the three shouted from the stoop.

On the sidewalk below, a man with wide shoulders and a crew cut snarled back. “Didn’t have to be like this, MacCready! We were just here to deliver a message!”

Madelyn and Nick exchanged knowing glances but refrained from interfering. While they had their lead identified, the situation was hardly any of their business. It didn’t mean that they weren’t going to eavesdrop and _make_ it their business, gather information that might come in useful later on.

“It only took you six months to track me down,” MacCready spoke, taunting his aggressors. “Winlock and Barnes. You two always hold hands across Boston? Don’t you know I left your wannabe gang for good?”

The man Madelyn assumed as Winlock shook his head, irritated as ever. “Yet here you are, taking jobs where you shouldn’t be. Listen carefully, MacCready, it has to stop.”

“Like I have to take orders from you,” he laughed and for a split-second Madelyn wondered if there was going to be a firefight the way the third man’s hand flinched along his side, reaching under his jacket.

Instead, Winlock defused the situation with a curt nod, signaling to his partner Barnes to step back. “We aren’t going to kill you. _Today_. Wouldn’t want a war with Goodneighbor, or with Winter.”

Nick’s hand around Madelyn’s arm tightened at the mention. Whoever these people were, they weren’t affiliated with the mob organization terrorizing Boston. MacCready crossed his arms, seemingly bored with the conversation. “Are we done here?”

The two thugs traded steely looks—this wasn’t over—not by a long shot. “We’re done. For now.”

As Winlock and Barnes passed the Cadillac, they took one slow, up-and-down look at the pair of onlookers before disappearing down an alleyway. Madelyn looked after them, deeply unsettled, but snapped back to the present as Nick swiftly led them to the lone man left on the hotel stairs, pacing as he kicked at the snow with his sneakers.

“MacCready?”

“Look pal, I’m not looking for any friends,” he said with a wince, shaking his head.

Madelyn looked at their would-be suspect now that they were up-close. For Vadim to have called him suspicious was not wrong, but if anything, the man simply appeared to be down on his luck. Overall, he looked nonthreatening: faded, rolled up jeans, dark flannel shirt with an army bomber jacket and a matching cap atop his dusty brown hair. He was skinny, like he had missed a few meals, and it made her wonder if he was another veteran of the streets that had returned from the war with no home to return to.

“We aren’t here to make friends,” Nick’s tone was firm, signaling it was time to take the proverbial gloves off. The man was squirmy and would need the two of them to act fast if they wanted the right information. “Do you know anything about an Earl Sterling?”

MacCready didn’t take to intimidation lightly. He narrowed his eyes, looking over both of them. “What are you, some kind of cop? Can’t do his job without his lady wife?”

“ _Lawyer_ ,” Madelyn corrected, removing her hand from Nick’s arm. She gestured in her partner’s direction. “Detective. Best not say anything that incriminates yourself.”

Nick laid it on thick. “We know you were at the Dugout Inn when Sterling disappeared, MacCready. So do us both a favor and tell us everything you know!”

The man held up his hands defensively, bewilderment spread across his features. “Jeez! _Okay_!”

“I was only there for two days, following up on… _something_. Yeah I saw Earl there. Nice guy, if not a bit ugly, but who am I to judge?” MacCready talked and the pair listened, Madelyn scribbling away in her notepad the important details. “He kept talking about needing to get out of town. At first it was innocent like…for a fresh start to meet the perfect woman, but the more drunk he got, the more it sounded like he was running from the wrong kind of people.”

“Who?” she followed up quickly.

“Heck if I know,” he responded.

Nick prodded further. “He didn’t mention the mob or a loan shark? The _Railroad_?”

The mention sent a shiver down Madelyn’s spine. Why, she wasn’t sure. For all of their digging in the last two weeks, the organization—if it even existed—was still shrouded in mystery. She stalled in her notetaking and tuned out most of Macready’s response. “…it’s just a myth.”

A familiar expression fell across Nick’s face as he mulled over MacCready’s words. Helpful? Hardly. It was more of the same of what Vadim had offered, leaving them at square one. Earl was still missing, and they were no closer to determining _why_ beyond a vague threat of needing to get away.

“I _might_ have something you can use,” MacCready voiced, shifting awkwardly down the snowy stairs so he was closer to them. “But if I’m gonna help you, you gotta help _me_.”

“What happened to ‘not looking for a friend’?” Nick remarked with a light smirk.

MacCready grumbled under his breath, clearly uncomfortable with the circumstances of their visit. He wasn’t having a good day, it seemed. “All bets are off when your life gets threatened in broad daylight.”

“Is _that_ what that was all about?” Madelyn asked, motioning towards the alley where Winlock and Barnes had wandered off to. She flashed a teasing smile, hoping to get a rise out of the man. “Colleagues of yours?”

“Fu—heck no,” he answered, censoring himself. _Odd._ She chalked it up to a man not wanting to curse before a lady and rolled her eyes. “They are Gunners. Small town gang that operates out of Quincy. I—I uh, used to run with them about five years ago. When I was younger. _Dumber_. But then I wised up. Got married and had a kid. Gig like that doesn’t really pay the bills, you know?”

“You’re married?” Nick asked, the two seemed to simultaneously note the missing wedding band. He was trying a different, more sympathetic angle. 

MacCready gave a solemn shrug, but his eyebrows furrowed with annoyance. “I was. But that isn’t any of your business.”

“Excuse me,” Madelyn blinked, the math not adding up in her head. “How old are you?”

MacCready chuckled like he was asked the question every day. “Twenty-two.”

Both her and Nick made the same surprised sound, staring at their suspect-turned-dud in disbelief. There went her veteran theory.

“I have a son, Duncan. He’s five years old,” MacCready continued, the emotions he expressed sincere. “I’m just trying to do the best I can by him. Can’t do that if I’m dead.”

“How do we fit into this equation?” Nick asked, tone softer than before. Madelyn smiled, knowing he couldn’t resist a hardship tale.

MacCready tilted his head back and forth with a low hum. “Two hot shot detectives like yourselves need an informant on the streets, right? Let me help you, and in return…”

“ _Lawyer_ ,” Madelyn corrected, again.

“ _Exactly_!” he replied, far too excited. “ _Crime and Punishment_ that sh—stuff.”

She decided not to lecture him on Russian literature and its vast differences to her actual career, which in itself were completely separate than what services she provided for the Valentine Detective Agency. She exchanged a silent, somewhat amused look with Nick, who seemed just as bewildered by the person they had crossed paths with. Finally, the two nodded and the detective extended his hand.

“Nick Valentine, Valentine Detective Agency,” he formally greeted.

MacCready chuckled as they shook hands. “You couldn’t make that stuff up, could you?”

His handshake with Madelyn was much softer, less amused. If anything, he seemed genuinely impressed. “Madelyn Hardy, attorney at law.”

“Robert Joseph MacCready,” he grinned. “RJ, Mac, MacCready. Whatever’s cool.”

“You have something for us?” she reminded, and he quickly removed his hand from hers with a short, excited inhale. The two watched as he patted the front of his jacket before digging through his pockets, finally producing a small key on a golden chain. “Is that…”

“Earl’s key,” MacCready answered with a sheepish smile, shifting his eyes away. “Figured if he was going to be running away, it might come in handy later on. Lives in those apartments near the stadium.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear this,” Nick muttered, shaking his head.

Madelyn wasn’t pleased that their best lead was stolen property, but at this rate, it was their best chance of tracking Earl Sterling down. She snatched the key from him before he could change his mind, tucking it away into her purse along with her notepad.

MacCready regarded her with a stern expression. “Remember my offer!”

She would. But for now, she and Nick had more work to do.  
  


* * *

  
That wasn’t the first time Madelyn and Nick had backtracked across town, chasing a lead on a case. As they raced through the Fens past the stadium to the grouping of apartments that matched the name on Earl’s golden key, she was grateful that at least _this_ time they hadn’t been sent to Quincy, or Concord. By the time they reached the Parkview Apartments, the sun was setting and the frosty chill from the morning had settled to a near freeze. She couldn’t explain it, but an eerie sense of dread settled in her gut, putting her on edge. Nick seemed to feel it as well, the two dashing up the flights of stairs to make it to Earl’s door.

“What do you think we’ll find?” she asked, nervous.

“Not sure, but we’re about to find out,” he answered, prompting her to unlock the door.

Madelyn was careful, quiet in her actions as she clicked open the lock, Nick taking the lead as he pushed open the door inch by inch. She followed closely behind, the two making their way blindly in the darkened room, the only guiding light the moon that shined in through a broken window shade.

“Mr. Sterling?” Nick called out in a low voice, scanning the area. It was a tiny, studio apartment, with a kitchen nook, a foldaway bed, a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. From what Madelyn could tell, their missing person wasn’t there. Still, Nick called out again. “Earl? Are you here?”

“Nick, something doesn’t seem right,” she whispered, stepping away to inspect the foldaway bed. Even in the darkness she could see the mismatched stains in the carpet, an overturned nightstand and a few pieces of broken glass. She held her breath before tugging sharply on the release, jumping backwards as the bed—and Earl—came tumbling out. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”

Nick managed to turn on a lamp, revealing what she had found, rushing over to her side as she turned away from the horror, covering her nose and mouth as to not retch. He wrapped a comforting arm across her shoulders, exhaling a low, defeated sigh. Earl was dead, but more than that, he had been brutally murdered.

“This wasn’t Winter,” Nick mumbled, drawing a quick conclusion. Madelyn had to agree, even if they only had the scene to go by—Eddie’s men weren’t into _butchering_ their victims. “We need to call—”

They both froze as a clattering sound echoed from beyond the closed bathroom door. Nick swiftly pulled his weapon from its side holster—a well-cared for .44 revolver—and motioned for Madelyn to move behind him. She followed his silent instructions, and reminded him that she too was armed, calmly removing the small pistol she carried from the purse on her arm. He glanced at her with a startled expression—she’d hear about this later—but kept moving closer towards the closed door.

“We know you’re in there!”

When the door creaked open, the two were faced with a familiar, but horrifying sight. Doctor Crocker, a local cosmetic surgeon stood with a wild and strung out look in his eyes—a far cry from the friendly face on the billboard ads plastered around town. He cackled out a laugh. “Naughty, naughty! You’re not supposed to be here! But that’s okay! I can fix that. I can fix _anything_!”

Madelyn resisted the urge to curse or to scream. For a brief moment, she wondered if she felt this terrified when held at gunpoint more than a year prior by a _different_ madman. Doctor Crocker, however, appeared completely unhinged, dangerous and unpredictable. He hadn’t just _shot_ somebody. He had cut them apart and used their blood as paint for the walls.

“Take it easy, doc,” Nick attempted, raising one hand in a calming gesture, all the while keeping his gun aimed towards the doorway. “Let’s talk.”

“I—I didn’t _mean_ to do it! Doctor Crocker is a brilliant surgeon!”

Talking in the third person was never a good sign, she decided, thinking he had to be high on some kind of illicit drug. Mixed with the adrenaline, the doctor was teetering on the edge of outright disaster.

“He never makes mistakes or loses patients! Only happy patients for Doctor Crocker!” he announced, reaching back to grab what turned out to be his own pistol. _Now_ , Madelyn was petrified. And yet, she didn’t scream, resolve getting the best of her.

“You made a mistake, Doctor Crocker,” she tried Nick’s brand of persuasion, even if it made her skin crawl. “Do the right thing. Just think it through. Come with us quietly.”

At first, her words seemed to have an effect, the daze lifting from his eyes as he glanced down at the red stains that covered his clothes and the state of disarray surrounding them. Doctor Crocker flicked his gaze back to Nick and Madelyn, and the panic returned. “Oh god! I killed a man! _There’s so much blood_! Blood! All over me!”

He was weeping now, loud and hysterically. Hesitantly, Nick stepped closer in a last-ditch effort to resolve the situation. The doctor lashed out, pushing him away. Madelyn’s heart skipped a beat, and she thought she would be reliving the past all over again. “No! No one can find out!”

But Doctor Crocker didn’t aim towards them. Instead, he turned the gun on himself, barrel pressed firm against his chest before firing. The action took less than a second, faster than Nick or Madelyn could react or intervene. His body collapsed in the bathroom doorway, clearly dead on impact.

“You should’ve seen that,” Nick hushed, his faded coat coming into view as he tucked her head close into his shoulder. She didn’t even realize she was trembling. “You shouldn’t have seen _any_ of that.”

A voice, somewhere in the back of her head told her it was just the beginning. She would become tempered, experienced. Most of all, she would _heal_. But first, she would see so much more. 

Just like that, the Earl Sterling case was closed.  
  


The Boston Police weren’t pleased with them, but then again, they never were. It wasn’t until past midnight when they were released from the scene, not without a scolding from Sergeant Danny Sullivan. It didn’t matter that they had tracked down Earl Sterling when Boston Police wouldn’t (or couldn’t) and had managed to hunt down a killer in the process. As the police saw it, because _any_ blood was shed, it looked indecent on their behalf, and it all had to be handled very carefully. Nick and Madelyn feared that was codeword for _coverup_. But they weren’t threatened, or told to keep quiet, which further fed into the detective’s either hypothesis—that Winter had nothing to do with Earl’s death. What had started as a run of the mill case had left them with more questions than answers.

Madelyn and Nick were exhausted by the time they returned to the agency. Ellie had left her little glass lamp turned on, just as she promised, but the brunette was long gone. Instead, a different, familiar voice called to them from Valentine’s office.

“Rough night?”

Piper winced as soon as she saw them come through the door, clenching her teeth in a sharp hiss. It was likely obvious how ragged they appeared, and Madelyn was sure some of their clothes were splattered with blood from Earl’s apartment. Nick pulled off his coat with a groan, tossing his hat across his desk as he snatched up the fresh pack of cigarettes Ellie had left behind. Madelyn didn’t bother, practically collapsing into her favored armchair on the left and slinking down, no matter how undignified her posture appeared.

“That bad?” Piper asked.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Nick responded, puffing out smoke before taking in another deep inhale.

The reporter tapped the rolled-up newspaper she carried against her palm, shifting her gaze between the two of them. “Well, since we’re already swimming in it,” she half-heartedly joked before unfurling the newsprint, dumping it atop Nick’s desk so he could see. “Johnny Montrano Jr. is dead. They found his body in the Harbor this morning while you two were running around.”

Fury seemed to be fueling Nick now, who was already starting on his second cigarette. Madelyn perked up at the news, realizing what his reaction would be. “The bastard’s finally done it. He’s finally had him offed. Fed to the fishes.”

“Fishes didn’t really get to do their job though,” Piper mused, rolling her eyes when the two remained silent, too focused.

Madelyn looked to Nick. “He’s looking to take over the northern territories.”

“If he hasn’t already,” Nick replied in an ominous tone. “Nobody is safe anymore.”

Eddie Winter had just made his first deadly move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Johnny Montrano Jr. (Fallout 4) was based on real life son of Johnny Martorano, a hitman for the Winter Hill Gang? Eddie Winter himself is likely based on Whitey Bulger Jr., who notoriously disappeared in 1994 and went uncaptured until 2011! Ol’ Whitey got himself shived in prison in 2018. 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	4. People Who Do Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Valentine Agency duo visit the Memory Den where Madelyn engages with a mysterious stranger in exchange for information about the Railroad. An old friend helps Nick discover alarming evidence that could crack the case against Eddie Winter wide open. Later, Madelyn returns to Boston Common to ‘follow the Freedom Trail’ and bumps into a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Bossa Nova Baby_ – Elvis Presley  
>  _Mama Said_ \- The Shirelles🎵

_“I admire people who do things.” - Bruno Anthony as played by Robert Walker (Strangers on a Train, 1951)_

* * *

**January 15 th, 1958**

“You can’t trust everyone.”

Madelyn spoke the words aloud, gauging Nick’s response. They were on their way uptown, trying to drudge up any leads they could on Montrano’s assassination. The last few days hadn’t managed to secure any valuable information, even from their most trusted of sources. Even their newest recruit, MacCready, had nothing to offer. The streets were quiet—gripped by fear—just the way Eddie Winter wanted it. Now they were switching tactics and stepping directly into enemy territory by visiting the very institutions run by the Winter crime family. It was a dangerous game, but somebody had to play it.

“Is that what that note says?” Nick asked in response, flicking his gaze to her as he drove. Madelyn was alarmed for all of a few moments—he _was_ a detective, after all—it was his job to figure things out. “You’ve been worrying over that piece of paper for weeks now.”

She looked over the words and the well-worn creases where she had folded and unfolded it, even though the words had been seared into her mind the first time she read them. “I received it on New Year’s Eve, at Faneuil Hall. I don’t know who it’s from. I—I meant to tell you about it.”

He looked amused, which she took as a good sign. “No skin off my nose. Looks like you were following its advice,” he teased. “Pretty enigmatic, if you ask me.”

Madelyn was in full agreement. “Do you ever get the feeling that you’re being followed?”

“Comes with the territory,” he replied before realizing her genuine unease. “Hey doll, if you’re really that concerned, we can—”

“No, no,” she shook her head, snapping herself away from the lingering fear. “I’m sure I’m overreacting. We’ve had some run-ins lately that have me spooked, is all.” She tried to lighten the mood. “You never take me anywhere nice.” 

Nick’s brows stayed furrowed, hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel, her joke soaring right over his battered fedora. “Don’t remind me. Jenny is still cross that I took you to a crime scene.”

Despite the tension, or maybe because of it, Madelyn laughed. “Well, we didn’t know it was one before we got there. She should be more upset about the blood on your socks.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t.”

At first, when they reached their destination, Madelyn wondered what they were doing at the Olympia Theatre. As far as she knew, it was a reputable establishment, with no known ties to the mobster families in Boston. She stared up at the marquee through the window as Nick rounded the car to her side, opening the door and offering his arm. She took it graciously, still fixated on the theatre signs until he nodded towards a side street with a single, burning red bulb as a guiding light. Luckily, he was just about the only man she trusted to lead her down a darkened alleyway, daring to laugh at the absurdity of it all. At the end of the cobblestone path there was a red painted door with a golden placard that read— _The Memory Den_.

“You’ve been here before?” she assumed in a playful tone.

Nick looked noticeably uncomfortable, reaching up with his free hand to adjust his tie. “Uh, Jenny brought me here once. We were younger, and Winter didn’t own the joint. It’s not your typical dance hall.”

Madelyn didn’t know what to expect, but when they finally entered she was overwhelmed, all her senses overloaded at once. The music was loud and infectious, crowds of couples dancing close— _very close_ —to the up tempo sounds of the live band. There were sparkling, strung up lights that dangled from the ceiling making her feel like she had stars in her eyes—and _what_ was that glorious smell?

“Blueberry pie,” Nick commented, reading her mind as he took her coat, handing off their belongings to the coat-check boy with a generous tip. “But that’s not what we’re here for,” he quickly reminded. She blinked hard, snapping herself free of the club’s distractions so she could focus on his instructions. “Let’s split up. You work the crowd, see if you can find anybody that knows what’s been happening on the street. I’m going to see if I can find Irma.”

“Irma?” she questioned, with an arched eyebrow. “Looks like I’ll miss out on that sweet-talking that you do.”

He shook his head with a soft, albeit nervous chuckle. Was the illustrious Nick Valentine blushing? “Don’t tell Jenny.”

They separated, Nick disappearing into the crowd as he made his way towards a back rooms, looking for the management who ran the Den. Meanwhile, Madelyn slowly surveyed the room, keeping a mental note of anyone that looked questionable as she gravitated towards the bar. The dancing, however, proved to be mildly distracting, bordering on erotic with the way some couples pressed up against one another. A glimpse of her past—dancing with Nate in a similar fashion when they were young and foolish lovebirds flashed through her mind while her ears burned hot. A tingle crossed over her skin and she practically swallowed the entire first glass of whiskey whole before ordering another.

Madelyn decided cooler heads would prevail and braced herself, letting out a calming exhale as she glanced around the club once more. As far as she could tell, there were no obvious signs that Winter’s men were present. If they were, it was likely they were holed up in the back where Nick had wandered off to. It was her every intention then, to charm the bartender into divulging information when she noticed a man sitting at the end of the bar—somebody who looked suspiciously familiar. Yet, she couldn’t place the man with the dark glasses and black, quaffed hair, or the immaculately tailored suit he wore. He wasn’t a mobster but didn’t look like a regular patron either. Still, she had the overwhelming feeling she had seen him before, racking her memory to figure out _when_ and _where_.

The stranger didn’t seem to notice her staring but if he did, didn’t seem to care, continuing to nurse his bourbon in that little corner of the bar. And then, he flashed the tiniest of smirks, tilting his glass in her direction. Suddenly a shiver ran up her spine and the anxiety she had been carrying since Faneuil Hall blossomed in full force. She gripped her whiskey tight, shooting back the rest of the contents with only one thought—she needed to find Nick, and get out the hell out of there. Without another moment to lose she moved away from the bar, blending into the crowd of dancing bodies as she made for the back rooms. When she glanced over her shoulder, the man from the bar was not far behind.

Rather than fear, Madelyn felt a rush of annoyance and decided to act. In one swift motion, she whipped around, pinning the much taller man to the nearest wall. One arm pressed across his chest, her other hovering near his throat where she held the end of the hairpin she had yanked free from her curls. With a flick of her thumb, the small blade clicked free, now shimmering in the darkness—a wonderful little present from Nick.

She pushed her stalker a little harder against the wall, boxing him in. “Why are you following me?”

The man’s eyebrows shot up over his darkened shades as he choked out a startled laugh, hands raised in defense. “Maybe I just need to use the can!”

He pointed with both index fingers to the doors just beyond her field of vision, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. She pressed again, harder against his chest. “Who are you?”

“A priest.”

Madelyn was incensed. “ _Bullshit_.”

“A sailor’s mouth? Adorable,” he commented whimsically, almost as if he wasn’t being held at knifepoint in a dim club hallway. Then again, Madelyn wondered how easy it would be for the man to quickly turn the tables, considering their size difference. The thought had her easing the sharp end of the hairpin a little closer to his skin. He let out a _meep_. “You sure know how to charm a man.”

“Who are you _really_?” she asked again.

He wiggled his fingers where his hands were still poised mid-air. “Somebody with secrets to share.”

Well now, _that_ was awfully convenient. Madelyn narrowed her eyes, still skeptical even as she relaxed, leaning away from him. The stranger sighed in relief as she lowered her arms, tucking her hair back into place with the deadly flower pin and stepped away. She looked him over as he straightened his tie, letting out a little cough as he cleared his throat.

Finally she asked, “What kind of secrets?”

“Ah, information isn’t free, my friend,” he replied. When she didn’t say anything, too frustrated by his sudden appearance, he continued with an amused expression. This time, he gestured towards the main room where the live music had grown louder and _faster_. “I’ll give you everything that you want to know for a dance.”

“ _No_!” she instantly rejected.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Madelyn hesitated over the man’s proposal in her mind and the mere second thought had her heart racing. What was she thinking? She couldn’t say _yes_. But wasn’t this all part of the job—the dangerous game her and Nick had agreed to? They weren’t going to corner Eddie Winter if they didn’t take risks, and right now, all she had to do was participate in one dance—not jump off a bridge. An entirely new set of nerves overtook her with the way the man was grinning at her, as if he could sense her inner turmoil. It was all made more difficult by the fact she couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, her own reflection shining back.

“Fine.”

He chuckled, beckoning her to follow. “Come on snake, let’s rattle.”

Madelyn ignored the jolt that shot through her when he gripped her hands, pulling her into the crowd of dancers as the music intensified. She hadn’t allowed herself to be _manhandled_ since Nate’s death. There had been no intimacy, no flirtatious touching and certainly no dirty-dancing in an uptown speakeasy. Being escorted like a _lady_ by Nick around town while they investigated cases certainly didn’t count. But now, she blamed it on being touch-starved and reeled in her focus. If she was going to do this, she might as well do it properly.

As the two fell into the rhythm of the music, she committed to every placement of her feet, every twist of her hip, every movement of her hands as they slid across the man’s shoulders and arms, the two of them gliding through the crowd as the music blared. He snaked an arm around her waist, palm flat along her lower back while he held her other hand in the air near their heads.

He was still wearing the same, fascinated smile. “Well _Charmer_ , what do you want to know?”

“Do you work for Eddie Winter?” she asked bluntly, ignoring the pet name. Even if she had her assumptions, she still needed to ask.

The man guffawed, spinning her in time with the beat. “If I did, would I tell you?”

“Fair enough.”

“Who do _you_ work for?” he asked, the two splitting apart for a brief moment to circle around one another.

Madelyn didn’t lift her gaze from his face, and she could only assume he was staring right back. She decided to be honest, hoping to catch more flies with honey, so to speak. “Valentine Detective Agency.”

Not the _whole_ truth, but what the nameless man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. He pulled her back, hands like fire as they glided along her waist to keep her close to him as they moved. She steeled herself, resisting the urge to pinch the nerve in his shoulder and have him writhing like a baby on the floor—Piper had taught her that trick.

“Going after the big dog, hey?” he questioned, not bothering to wait for her response. “Not surprising you’ve run into some dead-ends with all those disappearances. Now with the floaters showing up in the Harbor? _Phew_. Can’t catch a break, am I right?”

Madelyn wanted to know how he knew about her and Nick’s string of bad luck. She supposed if he knew about the agency, it was easy to hear about the rumors of their constant failures as well, set on by the Boston Police Department. She wanted to know a _lot_ of things, but as the man mentioned the disappearances, she decided to change her approach.

“What do you know about the Railroad?”

The man flashed a low, alluring grin. “That old myth? Everybody knows they’re just a ghost story.”

She wasn’t convinced, especially by the way he seemed completely charmed by the very mention. “I’m not so sure,” she disputed. “What’s this I hear about ‘following the Freedom Trail’?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From a very reliable source,” Madelyn answered, almost defiantly. “Somebody I trust.”

“Here’s some advice, Charmer.” He spun her away at arm’s length before twirling her back just as fast, this time so her spine was flush against his chest. The stranger’s breath was hot against her ear as he let out a soft chuckle. “You can’t trust everyone.” 

Madelyn’s brain didn’t catch up fast enough. By the time she registered the words, he was gone, disappeared into the sea of people. She spun around on her heels in an effort to catch one last glimpse, to shout a response, but there was no sight of the mysterious man. Unnerved, she found refuge away from the crowd, holding a hand to her chest as she steadied her breathing. It wasn’t just coincidence—he _had_ to be the one who sent her the note on New Year’s Eve. More questions raced through her mind, sending her spiraling. Just how long had he been following her? And for what purpose? Was she in danger?

“Hey doll,” Nick found her near the lobby, his expression shifting into one of worry when he sensed her bewilderment. With him was a voluptuous and beautiful, icy-blonde haired woman, dressed in a red-sequenced dress with a slit that rested high up her leg. Madelyn could only assume it was Irma. “You alright?”

She shook her head and then nodded, before shaking her head again. “I’m not sure.”

Irma let out a hearty chuckle. “Looks like you met Deacon, sugar.”

“De— _who_ now?” Nick questioned, clearly confused. “Madelyn?”

She decided this was neither the time nor the place to have the discussion with Nick. At least now, she had a name—something else to go on. Instead of responding as expected, she glanced between Nick and his lady-friend. “Did you get what you need?”

“Sure, sure,” he responded, taking her subtle hint. He tipped his head towards Irma with an appreciative smile. “Thank you, for all the assistance.”

“Don’t mention it, Mr. Valentine,” she purred. “Just don’t let your big, softy-self get hurt, all right? And _please_ say hello to Jenny for me.”

Outside, Nick didn’t immediately press for details, taking the time to look over her demeanor to gauge her emotions. Surprisingly, Madelyn had mellowed out, attempting to rationalize her encounter and determine the next best step. Only then did he dare to flash a sideways smirk. “Make a new friend?”

“Find us a new lead?” she deflected, humorously.

Nick laughed, escorting her to his parked Cadillac. “What do you say to more of ‘walking into treacherous lands’?”

Madelyn flashed Nick a teasing grin. “Lead the way, _Mr. Valentine_.”  
  


* * *

**  
January 16 th, 1958**

Precinct 8 was the closest police department to Valentine Detective Agency, and it just so happened to be the only precinct in Boston with a _somewhat_ friendly face. Marty Bullfinch—he and Nick used to work together, the closest thing Nick had to a partner before Madelyn came to the agency, and before Marty began hitting the bottle a little too hard. Their last case had them hunting down some golden grasshopper—more of a legend than anything tangible. By the end, the two had gone their separate ways, disgruntled and untrusting of what the other had to offer. It seemed that fate saw fit to bring the two back together at least one more time.

“What is this, some kind of joke?”

Marty’s disposition was alarmingly harsh when he saw the two enter the bullpen, standing up from his desk to sneer at Nick. He looked worse for wear, black hair greying at the sides and thin at the top. He looked haggard, dark lines under blue eyes indicative of a man who hardly slept and drank far too much. Madelyn stepped away as he quickly circled around to where they had been approaching but were now considering high tailing it out of there. Before either of them could take another step, Marty had snatched Nick’s hand in a firm shake, yanking him forward into a tight hug.

He laughed. “Ah Nicky, you old bucket of bolts. It’s good to see ya!”

Madelyn struggled to understand if it was a term of endearment or some in-joke between old friends. Either way, Nick appeared relieved by Marty’s true reaction to their presence. When they separated, the _police_ detective eyed Madelyn with a surprised arch of his brows.

“You replace me with a dame?”

She took no offense, smiling as she extended her hand politely. Marty held it far too delicately, as most men did, sure they were going to break her if touched too roughly. “Miss Madelyn Hardy. Attorney on loan from the D. A’s office.”

“A little more than just a dame, Marty,” Nick said, amused. 

“Right,” he nodded, grin a little more nervous as he adjusted his blue patterned tie. “What are you doing here? You know these guys that I work with all hate you, right?”

Nick didn’t waste any time, removing a tattered note from his coat. “Leave this behind at the Memory Den?”

Madelyn resisted the urge to laugh at the way Marty practically leapt to snatch it out of his hands, carefully confirming the paper’s contents before crumpling it up and tucking it into his jacket. Nick had shown her the letter the evening before, or what remained of it—a torn sheet of what read like instructions, signed by Eddie Winter himself. The only problem? A clear evidence marker that showed it _should_ belong in Boston police custody. Irma had informed Nick that Mr. Bullfinch had been at the club, asking too many questions, but ultimately couldn’t resist the lure of a good drink and got careless.

“God damnit Nicky! Are you tryin’ to get me fired?” he snapped in a sharp whisper. “Worse yet, killed?”

“I’m trying to get you to tell me what’s going on,” Nick replied. “Why does Boston P.D. have evidence of organized crime perpetrated by Winter that they haven’t done anything about?”

Marty’s face scrunched up, clearly discomforted with the entire conversation. “Couldn’t you have come here asking for a drink?” he muttered, shifting his eyes around the room. Madelyn noticed that a few detectives and uniformed officers had begun to look their way. “Follow me.”

“Valentine, you aren’t going to get anything from coming here,” he announced, clearly putting on a show as he led them down a hallway out of sight. When the coast was clear, he ushered them into a cramped storage room with a single, low hanging light.

Nick had the foresight to wedge himself between Marty and herself, glaring at the other man. “This better be worth it.”

“Listen, I don’t know who to trust anymore. All the evidence that we collect from low-level busts, from these hits and murders? They keep disappearing. Changing hands. Sent to different precincts for ‘further analysis’,” Marty rambled, pupils blown wide. He was either paranoid or had seen a pattern so startling it could only be true. “When I ask, they say they are trying to match up handwriting samples, that it will take some time. I say, _fuck ‘em_!”

Madelyn leaned away, startled by his tenacity. “That sounds like a cover-up. A conspiracy to let Winter get away with his crimes!”

“Nothing concrete. I can’t tell who’s on the payroll,” Marty continued, voice atremble. “If somebody ain’t, they’re too chicken-shit to ask the tough questions. But we’re still sent to keep up appearances. Clean up the scenes, make sure to the people, we’re trying to make Boston a better place.”

Nick remained quiet, jaw locked in silent ferocity. Madelyn knew he wanted nothing more than to see Eddie Winter off the streets—by any means necessary. His eyes darkened, narrowing as he focused in on Marty’s jacket. “So there’s more of these self-incriminating notes, you say?”

The other man was just as good as picking up on Nick’s intentions, shaking his head and hands wildly. “Oh no, Nicky. Don’t get it in your head that you’ll be able to get any of these away from police custody. Got em’ locked up real tight across the city. You think you can walk in here because you know me but what are you gonna do in Quincy? Waltz in there and just…” Marty waggled his fingers for dramatic effect. “Five finger discount the joint?”

Madelyn’s chest tightened at the serious expression Nick wore, his intentions clear as day. “Nick…” she warned. “I— _we_ can’t.”

“Yeah Nicky, listen to the lawyer broad,” Marty said in a panicked tone. “Is going after Winter really worth the trouble?”

“Right now there’s smoke burning all over Boston, clouding her in a thick sea of ash. And where there’s smoke, there’s sure to be fire,” Nick described, more determined than ever. “Do you really want to be here when the house burns down?” 

His former partner swallowed hard. “God damnit— _no_ ,” he finally relented, rustling through his jacket pocket to return the scrap of evidence. “I’ve told you everything I know but—if I find out more, you’ll be the first to know.”

Nick nodded, finding the agreement acceptable. “Good. We’ll do our best to keep you safe, Marty.”

As Madelyn and Nick made their way from the hallway closet, down from the bullpen and into the precinct lobby, they heard Marty Bullfinch call out to them again in his ragged voice. “For shit’s sake! Next time, bring be a bottle of whiskey— _or else_!”  
  


* * *

**  
January 17 th, 1958**

Boston Common.

Madelyn once promised herself she would never return to the lakeside park or the surrounding neighborhood where her husband had been murdered. She didn’t need to walk the snow-covered streets to relive those moments—every agonizing second still etched into her mind each night when she closed her eyes. It hadn’t gotten easier, even a year later, even with the distractions that life had tried to provide her. She wondered if it ever was going to be any easier, or if she was meant to carry around that pain and guilt forever. Her chest tightened, body going numb as she stared down at the very spot, envisioning the stain of blood and the last flicker of life she saw in Nate’s dark green eyes. Quickly, before she succumbed to her grief, she reminded herself that the past was not the reason she was there.

That morning, Nick had finally confronted her about what had occurred in the Memory Den and she came clean about her suspicions that she was being followed. Madelyn couldn’t determine for how long, but between New Year’s Eve and that evening uptown, it wasn’t a fluke. He raised the same concerns that she did, wondering if there was an underlying danger, but after analyzing the circumstances a little more rationally, it didn’t appear so. The two agreed that if anything, somebody or _something_ was trying to convey a message. While Nick worked in the shadows, tracking down Winter’s evidence files, they decided Madelyn would follow-up on the mysterious stranger. What she didn’t tell her partner, however, was where she was going that Friday evening.

The Common park stood empty, frozen still in the dead of night. Madelyn stood in the chill of the icy winter wind, watching as the hands on her watch signaled midnight. She used her shoe to scrape the snow away from the bronze placard on the ground— _The Freedom Trail. Boston_. Hundreds of tourists flocked to the site every day, but tonight, she was the sole visitor, searching for a clue. Curiously, there was a small smudge of red paint on the corner, something that looked like an arrow. She slowly moved to the nearby fountain that had been frozen over since Christmas, a low light emanating around the cobblestone. A second sign read— _At Journey’s End Follow Freedom’s Lantern_ —more red paint covering some of the letters.

She was so engrossed with the thoughts of where the red brick pathway led— _the graveyard next or was it the statehouse_ —that she barely registered the quiet footsteps and shadow approaching before it was too late.

“Dame like you shouldn’t be out this late.”

Madelyn swiveled to face the familiar taunting voice, briefly alarmed to find the man from the Memory Den leaning against a nearby light fixture, hands leisurely tucked away in his pockets. He was dressed in the same well-tailored suit from before, albeit with a winter coat to combat the chill in the air, and those damn _sunglasses_.

“You might be the next disappearance that private dick of yours ends up investigating,” he continued with a smirk.

She knew that it would be a battle of wits with his kind, shaking away any trace of anxiousness from her stance and expression. It would take all the field experience she had—or perhaps just pure instinct to handle the likes of him. At least now she knew his name. “Is this you threatening to snatch me away, Mr. Deacon?”

His lips flattened into a straight line before he let out a hearty chuckle. “How formal! _Mr. Deacon_ , she says,” he shook his head and approached. When he noticed her apprehension, he kept his distance. “ _Just_ Deacon, Charmer.”

Madelyn found it peculiar but said nothing. Instead, she focused on the non-use of her name. Her need for pleasantries outweighed the minefield of red flags her mind set up. “Please, call me—”

“ _Charmer_ ,” he interrupted, repeating the nickname with a grin. “Were you going to say _Miss Hardy_? Yeah, we don’t really _do that_.”

Of course he knew her name—Madelyn had to wonder what else he knew, and how much of an advantage this _Deacon_ fellow had over her. When it came to information, she didn’t like it when she was left out of the loop. Rather than expressing her frustration, she peered at him curiously. “We?”

Deacon nodded, removing his hands from his pockets to gesture towards himself. “Me, and my many personalities,” he said with such certainty, she couldn’t quite tell if he was joking. He then tilted his head, jutting his thumb over his shoulder. “Follow me.”

Madelyn hesitated, knowing full well she had no reason to trust the man. A similar feeling to one she felt in the Memory Den washed over her and she stepped forward—be it bravery or impulse, she needed answers—and as Deacon mentioned before, he was willing to provide them. A voice in her mind reminded her that the knowledge she sought wouldn’t come so easily. _Information wasn’t free._ Still, she wouldn’t have come to the Common that evening if she weren’t looking for _something_ , and she wasn’t about to return to the agency empty handed.

Instead of walking the Freedom Trail proper, Deacon led Madelyn up the streets into the North End neighborhood on the banks of the Boston Harbor. He was quiet, keeping a careful watch on their surroundings—at least that’s what she assumed he was doing, still questioning the purpose or usefulness of wearing such darkened shades at nighttime. Eventually, they came upon the Old North Church, the centuries old building damaged by a nearby property fire a few years prior. She stared up at the impossibly tall steeple and noticed that on the railing there sat a small, burning lantern.

“Freedom’s lantern,” she spoke.

Deacon was impressed. “Now you’re getting it.”

He withdrew a key from his pocket, using it to unlock the rusted chain that would otherwise bar entry to the church. Madelyn took the time to read over the faded plaque set into the red bricks— _one if by land, two if by sea_ —the building was more than a historical site, it was holy ground, offering many heroes of the American Revolution their final resting place. Fitting that it would also be a safe haven for some secret organization. As she followed Deacon inside, she moved her hand over her chest to form a cross—half out of respect at the destruction she saw, half out of the embarrassment she felt for not stepping foot inside a church since Nate’s funeral.

“Ah, _et spirtus sancti_ hmm?” Deacon questioned, his lighthearted tone bordering on offense. She shot him a silent frown, urging him to lead on. It was surprising that after two years, the interior had yet to be refurbished, many of the pews still showing signs of the fire that had swept through. A portion of the upper floor had collapsed, partially blocking the doorway that led to the basement and catacombs, but it didn’t deter Deacon. He waved a hand, motioning for her to move ahead of him. “Ladies first.”

Madelyn shook her head. “ _Priests_ first.”

“Oh, I’m going to like you.”

Deacon crouched to avoid knocking his head against the low beam, obliging her request to walk ahead of her down the darkened, narrow stairway. She braced herself along the wall as she followed, watching his every move, suddenly very aware they were surrounded by the dead. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, an irrational thought came to her, telling her this was all an elaborate ruse and she was about to be butchered and encased away in a tomb, never to be seen again. The sheer thought sparked a shiver to run up her spine and she inhaled a sharp gasp.

He glanced back at her, eyebrow raised. “Need me to hold your hand?”

Madelyn was sure she’d ever met somebody so insufferable. Despite herself, she forced back a smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than showing me a collection of dead bodies, Mr. Deacon,” she said the name intentionally, earning a rise out of him. “Been there, done that.”

“I know,” he answered, walking the two a few more paces towards a larger bronze plate, a replica of the ones that lined the city’s Freedom Trail. Wires connected the plaque to a mechanism beyond the brick wall and the further she scrutinized the space, the more she realized there was a room beyond. Deacon flashed another grin as he maneuvered the seal until it clicked a release. “I give you, _the Railroad_.”

Beyond the false wall was darkness but before she could move forward, Deacon caught her elbow, saving her from falling off the ledge. She was about to say her thanks when the room was flooded with light, Madelyn raising her arm up to shield her eyes. She squinted through the blinding spotlights to the other side of the gutted tomb to see three figures—two women and a man who looked suspiciously like her neighbor, Robby. Before she could speak, the woman in the center called out.

“Deacon, where’ve you been?”

He added his hand to Madelyn’s in a futile attempt to help block out the brightness. “ _Jesus_ , Dez—I said no intimidation tactics!” 

With a snap of her fingers, the lights dimmed to a more reasonable setting, allowing Madelyn to readjust her sight. She pinched the bridge of her nose, wincing as the dark spots slowly faded away. Only then did she realize Deacon had yet to release his grip of her arm—she decided to say nothing about the infraction, for now. What she needed was answers— _now_.

“Will somebody please tell me what the hell is going on?” she asked, emphatically.

The woman across the way nodded, signaling Deacon to escort Madelyn across the way to where they could have a more civilized conversation. The others loitered nearby, listening on. Even there, Deacon held onto her and she wondered if he was doing so to keep her put, or to offer her some semblance of familiar comfort in a strange place. Either way, she didn’t bat his hand away, focusing on the red-headed woman as she spoke.

“I’m Desdemona, and I’m the leader of the Railroad.”

She said it plainly, as if it was of no consequence. But there it was—the truth. The Railroad wasn’t some fairytale, made up by Bostonians to scare each other in the night. They were real and apparently operating out from the ruins of the Old North Church. One question nagged at Madelyn’s mind—were they friend, or foe?

Desdemona continued before she could ask. “We went through a lot of effort to arrange this meeting with you.”

Madelyn shifted her gaze to Deacon, to her neighbor Robby, to the silver-haired woman standing guard, and back to Desdemona. “Why? You clearly know where I work, and where I live. A simple hello didn’t suffice?”

“I assure you, you have nothing to fear. In a world full of suspicion, treachery, and hunters—our organization must play our cards close to the chest. In our line of work, we have made many powerful enemies—you never know who you can trust.”

Deacon’s fingers tightened along her arm and she thought about the note— _his_ note and words. Madelyn was only beginning to understand. “What exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard rumors,” Desdemona replied, resentfully. “That the Railroad are the perpetrators behind the many disappearances in the city.”

Madelyn nodded, knowing full well she and Nick had added that very theory to their case notes. It was one of the many reasons she had decided to follow the lead downtown in the first place. Desdemona sighed, shaking her head as she pulled a lose cigarette from her jacket pocket.

“There is some truth to the matter,” she continued, the smolder of her smoke casing an eerie glow on her face. “We seek to help people leave the city of their own volition. Battered women unable to divorce their husbands, unlucky bastards who can’t repay their debts to the loan sharks, or sometimes, just a person who wants to get away and begin again.”

“It’s all kosher,” Deacon quipped, as if sensing Madelyn’s tension. “New identities in new towns—and we have an agent within the Boston P.D. who clears the files for us.”

Madelyn was still skeptical of their intentions. “Are you saying you had nothing to do with the last twelve disappearances?”

“That, or the murders,” Desdemona shook her head. “We’ve ceased all activity to switch focus on gathering intel. Haven’t harbored anyone in months. Our main focus now—rather it _was_ —is on dismantling the web of lies being fed to this city. The disappearances, the murders—we might be the only people stupid enough to fight back.”

Madelyn’s heart warmed at the idea, thinking of herself and Nick before focusing on the bigger picture. “Was?”

“We aren’t hiding out in an underground tomb for kicks,” Deacon remarked. “Two months ago—do you remember reading about that gas leak in Lexington that left a bunch of people dead?”

Desdemona hushed him with a wave of her hand, choosing to fill in the remaining details herself. “The media covered up the deaths, as expected. But it was no accident. We were targeted.”

“Who would do such a thing?” Madelyn asked.

“Likely the same people who are out to see that Eddie Winter does not spend another night in prison. The same people who are responsible for making so many Boston citizens disappear in the night, and perhaps the same people who have given you and your detective a string of bad luck.”

Desdemona’s claims were powerful, if true. She motioned to the very man at Madelyn’s side. “What remained of us were lucky to survive, thanks to Deacon. Now that our resources are limited, we have not had as many chances to help those in need or track essential people down.”

“Except for you,” Deacon mused, leaning close to her ear. At that, she finally wiggled herself from his grasp, ignoring his quiet chuckle.

“Why me, exactly?” she questioned. “Despite your limitations, your theory isn’t any different than the agency’s. I’m not sure how we can be of any help.”

“We won’t lie to you,” Desdemona voiced, eyes sharpening as Deacon made a small disagreeing sound. “Your name had come up in our intel too many times for it to be coincidental. So we sent out a few agents to ensure you weren’t a threat. Signaled Deacon to make contact and, well, now you’re here.”

Madelyn wasn’t pleased. “I still don’t appreciate being stalked.”

Deacon shook his head. “Don’t call it stalking. I’d call it… _social distancing._ Except, well, without the social part.”

“Where is this intel coming from? Winter’s men?” Madelyn asked. If so, she needed to follow-up with Nick, immediately. However, the uncertainty in Desdemona’s expression gave her pause. “Do you not know?”

“We were still in the process of decoding what we had when we were forced to find a new safe house,” the other woman explained. “Many of our resources were left behind.”

“That’s where you come in,” Deacon chimed in.

“Excuse me?”

Desdemona sighed, flicking her cigarette to the ground and extinguishing it with the sole of her leather boot. “Consider this your formal invitation to join our organization.”

Madelyn was caught off guard. She knew immediately what the dangers of joining a fringe, underground society would bring—the unknown frightened her and thrilled her all the same. Yet, she was also aware of how Desdemona and her fractured group were likely the last people left in Boston willing to take a stand against the darkness that threatened to envelop it whole. If she offered a lending hand, it could make all the difference.

“Okay,” she finally agreed with a nod. “I’ll join.”

“Now we need to know what to call you. Secrecy keeps us alive, and code names are a part of that,” Desdemona explained before Madelyn could interject—why couldn’t she just use her own name? “What’s yours?”

She ignored Deacon’s overjoyed expression as he leaned closer. “She’s already got one, don’t you, _Charmer_?”

Desdemona looked between them curiously, waiting for Madelyn’s approval. With a sigh, she nodded, agreeing to the moniker. At least it was fitting. The expression on the other woman’s face told her she thought so too.

“Welcome to the Railroad,” Desdemona offered a fleeting smile. “Agent Charmer.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the pleasure of commissioning its-sixxers for [this lovely art](https://its-sixxers.tumblr.com/post/616424051324436480/rendered-commission-for-eeveevie-a-scene-from), depicting Mads and Deacon at the Third Rail. I give her all the recommendations she deserves, and if you ever get the opportunity, you should work with her! 
> 
> The Old North Church is a real church in Boston, built in 1723 and has a 191-foot-tall steeple, making it the tallest church in Boston as well. Just as you experience in-game, it is the real-world burial site of over 1000 people, including American Revolutionary War heroes. 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	5. Bad Luck Can Be a Big Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madelyn and Deacon run their first Railroad operation together and find that they get along better than expected. Nick makes similar observations when finally introduced to the enigmatic man whose been following his partner for weeks. Overwhelmed by sudden feelings of guilt, Madelyn decides it’s as good as time as any to activate her last Christmas gift from Nate—a Mister Handy robot named Codsworth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Tequila_ \- The Champs

_“Bad luck either makes a man or destroys him. Are you gonna let it destroy you? Depending how you take it, bad luck can be a big break.” -_ Police Inspector Nakajima as played by Gen Shimizu (Stray Dog, 1949)

* * *

Madelyn devoted the following days to keeping herself from a full-fledged nervous breakdown. That late Friday evening spent in North End bled into early Saturday morning, and it was nearly sunrise by the time she made it back to the safety of her Cambridge apartment. Robby had escorted her back—or should she call him _Drummer Boy_? She wasn’t sure she’d adjust to codenames or subterfuge, despite the confidence the organization seemed to have in her capabilities. She was a _lawyer_ , who just so happened to be partnered with a talented detective with a penchant for trouble. Maybe the Railroad needed to extend their invitation to Nick instead. And so she spent that Saturday anxiously pacing her tiny living room, Dogmeat at her heels with a worrying whine.

She had scribbled out all her woes on a notepad—listing out the pros and cons of sticking with the mysterious group. For starters, she considered Desdemona a useful ally, even if her tactics were questionable. In the brief meeting underneath the Old North Church, it was clear that the Railroad leader was efficient and would stop at nothing to get the answers she wanted. Madelyn had also met Glory—a tall, silver-haired woman who worked as an intern at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology by day and ran operations for the Railroad by night. She was considered their _heavy_ , taking on the riskier jobs like transporting the ‘disappeared’ where they wanted to go. Well, at least until their base of operations was forced underground. For that, Madelyn etched her name under _pros_. After careful consideration on having one of their agents as a neighbor, she realized it likely couldn’t hurt to have _somebody_ nearby—and so Drummer Boy was added too.

When Madelyn focused on the cons, her apprehension spiked. All the secrecy and deception was not how she typically operated, even with the Valentine Detective Agency. Nick knew full well she liked to play things clean and by the book as much as possible, seeing as she had the law to uphold. While she enjoyed the thrill of investigating leads and chasing down bad guys, she wasn’t keen on full blown espionage. That being said, she wasn’t blind to the fact that her time with the agency had turned dangerous—Earl Sterling’s case a glowing example. The hunt to corner Eddie Winter would only exacerbate matters. While she carried a pistol in her purse for protection ever since the night Nate died, she prayed she never had to use it. More disadvantages to joining the Railroad: Desdemona had mentioned they were attacked—the deaths swept under the rug by some kind of media conspiracy. So a threat to her life was certainly a possibility. _Premature death_ —con.

Her mind drifted and she thought about their _top agent_ —as Desdemona put it—Deacon. The man who had followed her, tracked her down and ensured she made her way to the Railroad in the first place. Desdemona was now entrusting him to teach Madelyn the ropes, pairing the two as partners, their task to collect more intel on the Railroad’s would-be enemies. When she thought about if this belonged in the _pro_ or _con_ column, she was frustratingly undecided, falling asleep in the corner of her wrap-around couch.

On Sunday, she awoke startled and confused, sure that the last forty-eight hours had all been a dream. The first thing Madelyn did was call Nick, who was on his way out the agency doors to track her down, worried when he hadn’t heard from her after her evening out. Ellie and Jenny had both talked him down from thinking anything horrible had happened to her, and he had stewed behind his desk all, chain-smoking up a storm without getting a moment of work done in the Eddie Winter case—or any other case, for that matter. Nick was relieved to hear she hadn’t been snatched up, but as she expected, had a plethora of questions the moment she mentioned her encounter with the Railroad. Surprisingly, however, the detective was in favor of her newfound alliance, believing the benefits far outweighed the risks. Even if she was reluctant, Madelyn agreed that she would stick to the planned Monday morning meeting with Deacon—whatever _that_ entailed—then rendezvous with Nick to share all the details of her ordeal.

He wished her good luck. Little did she know how much she needed her friend’s good fortune.  
  


* * *

**  
January 20 th, 1958 **

Drummer Boy delivered the instructions for the meeting just after sunrise on Monday—a faded parchment not unlike the one she received on New Year’s Eve—neatly typed lettering directing her to Lexington, specifically on a street corner near the Corvega assembly plant. The industrial complex was a short cab ride from her apartment, and despite the cold-front that had swept in overnight, she elected to wait on the sidewalk, bundled up in her thick, dark blue coat and matching gloves. It didn’t take Madelyn very long to start shivering in place as she waited in the designated spot by the fire hydrant along Massachusetts Ave, wishing she had worn thicker stockings. After five minutes, she glanced down at her watch, irritation rising. At ten-past eight, she dug through her purse and pulled free her compact, compelled for some unbeknownst reason to assess her reflection.

“Didn’t have to get all dolled up just for me, Charmer.”

Madelyn snapped the mirror shut at the sound of Deacon’s voice, turning around to face where he had snuck up on her as if he had materialized straight up from the snow-covered sidewalk like some eldritch being. Or at least, she _thought_ it was Deacon—he looked very different from the last time she saw him. He was dressed much more plainly and comfortably for the weather with a long scarf and gloves. There was something off about his hair, but she couldn’t tell—not with the trilby hat in the way. She wouldn’t have recognized him if it weren’t for the reflective shades.

She was about to respond when she remembered Drummer Boy’s directions. As foolish as she felt, she repeated the memorized phrase. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

Deacon smiled, impressed. “Mine is in the shop,” he replied. “Catching on quick, I see.”

Instead of offering a proper response, she motioned to his glasses. “Do you ever take those off?”

Deacon deflected, as to be expected. “My face?” 

Madelyn sighed—she didn’t want to appear impatient, but she had been kept waiting and was on the verge of freezing on what was supposed to be Boston’s coldest day of the month. Realizing, Deacon gestured for the two to walk up the incline towards the assembly plant.

“I would’ve worn different shoes if I knew we were going to be heading into Corvega,” she mused, breath frosting in the air before her face.

“We aren’t going inside the plant,” he started with a shake of his head, diverting them behind a small retainer wall. He tapped his shoe down against a metal surface, bending down to sweep the build-up of snow away to reveal a hidden maintenance door. “We’re going through _here_.”

He pointed to her blue suede heels. “Hope those aren’t designer.”

“You underestimate the mess Nick has dragged me through,” she countered, watching as he lifted the heavy metal plate to reveal a small shaft and a ladder that led down into what she could only assume was a sewer tunnel system. “Can’t say it’s ever been literal _shit_ , though.”

Deacon let out a loud, belly-aching laugh as he sat on the ground, allowing his legs to dangle over the ledge. “Ladies first, unless you’d rather give me the chance at an up-skirt looky-loo.”

Despite the lewdness, Madelyn found herself amused and struggled to hide her smile—there were still some questions she wanted answered before she crawled her way down a mysterious hole in the ground. The letter he sent that morning wasn’t exactly clear, not that she expected it to be. “Where exactly are we going? What are we doing here?” 

“Our old HQ, before we were gassed out was built to be strong, defensible. We thought it was secure. This escape tunnel leads to the base,” he pointed over his shoulder to the Slocum’s Joe in the plaza a few hundred yards away. “Like Dez said, the survivors didn’t have time to grab anything. So we’re getting whatever intel was left behind in the rush.”

Madelyn was held up on _secret underground headquarters_. “The Railroad had a base under a _donut shop_?”

“Not every Slocum’s Joe has a massive tunnel complex underneath it,” he grinned, relishing in the fact that he was cluing her in on the big secret. “Used to be a Defense Intelligence Agency research lab during the war—until V-Day, and then some of those spies turned Railroad agents and the rest is history. We called it _The Switchboard_. Did us good, until more than half of us were snuffed out.”

She frowned, finding the loss of life distressing, compounded by the fact no one outside the organization except their killers and conspirators knew the truth. “What do we hope to find?”

“Something that shows who the sons-of-bitches that did this in the first place,” Deacon responded before flashing a small, grim smile. “I think I left behind some clean underwear, now that you mention it.”

Satisfied on the mission parameters, Madelyn stepped towards the maintenance entrance and began her descent, tightly gripping the metal bars so that she wouldn’t slip. Above her, Deacon watched for a few moments before following, shutting the metal latch closed behind them. Below her there was only a small light to lead her way, and as expected, a large puddle of water that was unavoidable as she approached the bottom. As she stepped through the murky water she groaned, knowing her shoes were now completely ruined—another pair for the _damaged by field work_ box.

“Wet socks, my favorite,” Deacon announced sarcastically as he stepped down next to her, digging through his coat pockets until he produced a small, silver flashlight. He flicked it on, shining it under his chin for dramatic effect before angling it ahead through the tunnel. “Shall we?”

As they crept along the watery path in silence, Madelyn found herself glancing over at her newfound partner, unable to stop her mind from making comparisons to Nick. It wasn’t fair, considering she had known one man for years, and the other for a handful of hours spread across a few days. Deacon was—well he was an _enigma_ , and she was determined to crack the code.

“Desdemona called you her top agent. How does your position differ from Glory’s?” she asked, catching his attention as they walked.

“My job’s mainly intel. So the more places I go, the better I’m doing it,” he turned his head in her direction. “Might have noticed me hanging around if you weren’t so wrapped up in your detective work. What can I say? You’re just one big beautiful distraction,” he beamed. “Plenty of opportunities to learn secrets following you around.”

Madelyn let his overzealous complement slide, focused instead on what he had mentioned. “You weren’t just at the New Year’s gala?”

“Nope.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“ _Nope_.”

Figured. She had deduced by that point he was at the Memory Den not only to follow her, but because the Railroad had to have an inside agent there too, and that person could only be Irma, given her position and knowledge of Deacon in the first place. She’d keep that nugget of information to herself for now. Madelyn leaned a little closer—a test, to see if invading his personal space would discomfort him. Of course, he wasn’t bothered in the slightest, as she should’ve known, based on their very first encounter.

“Have you had partners before me, Deacon?” she questioned next, resisting the urge to smile. Now she was just being nosy, even if it was a valid question that had run through her mind. “And why use the codename _Deacon_ anyways? Have a fascination with religious symbolism, or something?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” he joked, feigning annoyance. “I feel like I’m being interrogated!”

Madelyn softly snickered at that. “I could cuff you and take you back to the agency, give you the real experience.”

His eyebrows shot up, lips twisted in amusement. “ _Kinky_.”

Halfway through the maintenance tunnel they came upon a locked gate. Again, Deacon patted at his pockets before reaching directly towards her temple. Understandably, she flinched away, blinking at him in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Have a bobby pin I can borrow?” he explained, gloved fingers still reaching for her hairline and up-do. Madelyn dodged his invasive approach, pressing her body closer to the iron bars. Maybe she deserved that for testing his personal bubble.

“Good lord,” she sighed, exasperated, pulling free a small iron pin from her golden curls herself. “I can pick a lock too, if you’d only ask.”

Deacon was visibly pleased by her declaration, shining the light on the lock so that she might see her work. “And where might a lovely lawyer such as yourself have learned such a reprehensible skill?”

“My um—” she faltered, deciding now was not the time to tell Deacon about her deceased husband, or the little things he had taught her in their life together. She wondered if there ever would be a time—or if he already knew, and she even needed to broach the subject. The pin snagged and she steadied her hand. “Nick taught me.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her as if he could tell she was being dishonest. She knew if she was going to continue working with him, she would need to get better at the art of lying. She didn’t go to law school for years upon years without developing a silver-tongue—now it was time to put it to good use. Deacon drummed his fingers along the torch.

“I’m used to running Railroad ops solo. But being partnered up with you?” Madelyn glanced out of the corner of her eye to catch a glimpse of his smirk—apparently it was the only expression he knew. “Isn’t too bad. Now that we’re a team, we should have a code name. Like _Double Indemnity_ , or _White Heat_ …the _Big Sleep_?”

She paused to remove her gloves, stuffing them in her coat pocket. Fingers bare, she had an easier time with the metal pin, even with Deacon’s rambling. “I’m partial to Bogart and Bacall—though I wonder if that movie was only half as good because of their off-screen romance.”

“If this plays out anything like a cliché noir film,” Deacon mused. “I can’t promise you won’t fall devastatingly head-over-heels in love with me by the end.”

Madelyn smiled, but she immediately dismissed the words as harmless banter. So he was a flirt—she could manage that. “I can’t guarantee _you_ won’t be the one doing the falling, Mr. Deacon.”

“Oh, _Charmer_.”

With a resounding _snap_ , the lock broke free and Madelyn pushed the gate open for the two to advance. These tunnels had more lighting, and beyond another unlocked security door was a small maintenance room, filled with tools, supplies, and boxes. Deacon lingered near the bookshelves, scanning for anything he could salvage. Meanwhile, she peered out through the broken windowpanes and into the large room ahead, overwhelmed by what she saw. A long time ago now, Nate had explained that during his time in the military he had seen intelligence bases that looked straight out of a Hollywood spy thriller, but she always thought he was having her for a laugh—until now.

Even abandoned, the area was spacious, rows of desks set up and prepared for spies—rather, Railroad agents—to research intel on whatever information they saw fit. In an overhead, second-story room sat a large, data computer, powered down and out of commission. She was so caught up in taking in the sight of the so-called _Switchboard_ that she hardly realized Deacon had snuck beside her. She figured he would shed more wisdom on the Railroad’s former base of operations, but instead his next words sent her reeling.

“So you’re married.”

Madelyn nearly choked. “What?”

He tilted his chin down at her left hand and reflexively, she covered the ring with her right, twisting it nervously between her fingers. His expression was too hard to read when he wasn’t grinning at her, eyes always covered up with those ridiculous darkened sunglasses. “That shiny rock you’ve got has implications.”

“Then you should already know the answer,” she said in return, unable to hold back her discomfort. “Right?”

Deacon shrugged. “Maybe not. Maybe I wanted to hear it from you instead of reading it in a file. You know what they say about assuming.”

She hesitated several times, opening and closing her mouth when the words wouldn’t come out. This was an emotional wall so few had breached, and she wasn’t sure if Deacon was one that could be added to the list—not yet anyways. Still, she felt as though she owed him some semblance of the truth, a sign of good faith, if their partnership were to continue. 

“I—I’m widowed,” she spoke softly, avoiding looking at his face. “That’s all I’m willing to say, right now.”

“Fair enough,” he replied with a nod. She hoped that was the end for his line of questioning, but then he tapped his finger along his chin. “You’re a woman of faith, right? Have you ever been to the church in Quincy?”

“Now _I_ feel like I’m being interrogated,” she muttered, flicking her gaze to him, hoping he caught her sarcasm. “Are you going to pull handcuffs out of your pockets?”

Deacon’s lips twisted into a sideways grin. “No, but I can talk dirty if you’d like. _Veux-tu voir mon pantalon_?”

Madelyn couldn’t help but laugh—the warmth in her chest a bizarre and foreign feeling—but her amusement was real. Delighted by her reaction, Deacon silently beckoned for her to follow through the double doors into the Switchboard proper. “Come on, _Bacall_ , let’s find some intel.”

She wanted to tease him, say something clever about how she saw Nick Valentine as more of the Humphrey Bogart type instead, but the moment they crossed the threshold, the air was sucked out from her lungs. The attack on the former headquarters had occurred months ago and yet the underground building still reeked of gas and _death_. Madelyn felt the corners of her eyes prickle—the air quality wasn’t enough to harm her, but it was caustic enough to be unpleasant. She grabbed one glove from her pocket and held it over her nose and mouth. When she glanced over to Deacon, he was doing the same with the edge of his scarf. She followed him through the rows of abandoned desks and toppled over chairs, scanning the wooden surfaces for files or anything that looked important. Then again, she wasn’t entirely sure what _would_ be important. Deacon passed through the area dismissively, brushing aside forgotten paperwork with the sole of his shoe.

“Where are you going?” she asked, coughing a little at the bitter taste in the air.

He silently gestured upstairs and continued on his path. In the console room that overlooked the main floor, the air was clearer, allowing her to inspect the surroundings a little more carefully. On the nearby table was a forgotten notepad, the handwriting barely legible.

“What exactly is a _MILA_ , and what does it have to do with…MIT terraforming the Commonwealth?” she asked, hesitantly. As she flipped through the notes, she was sure she had stumbled upon the rantings of a madman.

Deacon let out a boisterous chuckle. “Bring those with you. Tinker Tom will be forever in your debt.”

“Tinker…” she shook her head, deciding not to ask for clarification. She tucked away the small notepad into her purse. “Another one of your operatives?”

“He’s not a field agent anymore,” he explained as they moved through the back-office corridors, Deacon leading them left towards a few scientific research labs. He seemed to know _exactly_ what he was looking for. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, considering he used to work there. “Tom is—how do I put it—our engineer. He invents things, usually things that are incredibly illegal and likely to get us all blown up and killed, but thirty percent of the time, his inventions are helpful.”

“He’s intelligent but has fallen so far off his rocker it’s hard to tell sometimes,” he described further, in a somber tone. “If you were under all that stress from watching your friends die, it’d be hard not to succumb to madness.”

Madelyn didn’t say anything, her mind switching focus to the _pros_ and _cons_ list she had drawn up over the weekend. With each new grain of information, the negatives were starting to outweigh the positives. Deacon—she was still undecided. For a moment there, she could’ve sworn she had seen a hidden depth of emotion, but it had faded away just as fast as it appeared. He glanced over his shoulder to look at her, as if he had heard her thinking about him, or rather, felt her staring at the back of his head.

“Our good Doctor Carrington kept a vault up ahead. I can guarantee there’s something we need locked away in there,” he explained. Now there were two names—two Railroad agents in which she needed a face to a name. The back-corner room looked more like a medical lab, albeit with a large, metal door that was better suited for a bank than a doctor’s office. “What’s your lucky number?”

It was a rhetorical question at best, Deacon approaching the safe mechanism eagerly as he removed his gloves. Even though he appeared to know the combination, he made a show of it, leaning in to listen to the gradual ticks of the cogs as they clicked into place. Not a moment later, the lock was open, and he was flashing a self-satisfied grin. “Open says me.”

A gush of air filled the room as the vault door creaked open. Inside, an emergency light flickered eerily, forming elusive shadows out of the metal storage shelves that lined the large safe. Whatever Madelyn expected to find she was astounded by medical and technical gadgets, all abandoned from when the Railroad was forced to evacuate. She was half tempted to pick up a metal contraption of sorts when she was reminded of the possible contamination and focused her attention elsewhere.

“Here we are,” Deacon announced, pulling a large, dusty folder from the shelf. He inspected the contents, allowing Madelyn to gander a peek from over his arm. She was surprised to find many, if not all the pages written in code. “Hadn’t gotten around to deciphering this batch yet.”

“How do you know it’s important then?”

“Because ten people died ensuring it didn’t land in the wrong hands, that’s why.”

Madelyn cocked her head aside, seeing the mission for what it was. “This was the target all along, wasn’t it?” When he nodded, she nearly lost her patience. “You could’ve told me instead of stringing me along for kicks. I went through all of that, and I don’t know why.”

Deacon frowned, realizing he had miscalculated her reaction. “Would you believe me if I said that I don’t know either?”

“No.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded with a small pout. He shut the folder and tucked it into his coat for safe keeping. “Dez approved the op. For all I know, these are instructions on how to brew the perfect cup of coffee.”

She had to take his word for it, hoping everything they had just done was worth the effort. Deacon led the pair towards another maintenance shaft and up a metal catwalk that led to a service elevator. After he pressed the button, she peered at him curiously. “Aren’t we going back the way we came?”

“Speaking of. How do you take your coffee?” he avoided the question, motioning for her to enter the small elevator before him as the doors chimed open.

Madelyn sighed, wondering if it wasn’t too late to ask Desdemona to be paired up with someone else. Still, she humored him. “Two sugars and a little bit of cream.”

Even as they crept through the tunnels, she had doubted that the old Railroad Headquarters was beneath the Slocum’s Joe, but as they exited the elevator into a basement storage room, she was faced with boxes of the coffee shop’s paraphernalia, including a very brightly colored donut costume that was folded over the staircase banister.

“Tinker Tom used to wear that on the street corner while on lookout,” Deacon explained, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking. She followed him up the stairs, but instead of a door there was a false panel of thick wood that took some effort to push open. He stuck his head through the small gap, checking the perimeter. “After you. Cars’ out front if you’d like an escort back to your neck of the woods.”

Madelyn flashed him an indignant stare. She gestured to her ruined shoes. “Two entrances and we had to take the long way around?”

“You’ve shown me you can dance,” he answered. “I wanted to know that you could sneak around too.”

She walked ahead of him through the false bookshelf with half-of-mind to hail a cab as soon as she was outside when his hand hooked into her elbow and yanked her back and into the closest booth. She was about to protest when his eyebrows raised high above his shades. “Act natural.”

She flicked her eyes down to where his hand was covering her own across the table. It wasn’t as an alarming of a shock like the one she felt at the Memory Den, but still, her skin tingled at the unfamiliar contact. Given the circumstances, she didn’t pull away and she squashed the thought that wondered if she would’ve done so otherwise. But if he wanted a ruse, they would need to blend in. She took a moment to shrug off her coat, folding the garment into the space beside her before grabbing the menu tucked behind the napkin dispenser.

Deacon caught on, discarding his own coat and scarf to his right. His left hand breached across the linoleum surface, fingers curling around her right hand again. She wasn’t surprised this was the act he wanted to put on. “Do you see the man at the counter?”

Madelyn barely flicked her gaze up and over his shoulder, grinning like he had told her a joke instead. “The man in black? Yes. He’s wearing sunglasses,” she paused to twist a golden curl around her finger with her free hand—she might have been over doing it. “One of yours?”

“Definitely not,” he responded, disguising his vitriol behind a soft laugh. “But he is here for us.”

She took a glance at the man at the main counter again as discreetly as she could, made easier when a passing waitress collected their coffee orders from Deacon who was all too happy to show off how he had remembered hers. At first glance, the dark-skinned man didn’t look threatening—appeared to be just another businessman on a coffee break—but the way he was scanning the diner with purpose sent a chill down her spine. A hunch told her he wasn’t one of Winter’s men—but then who did he work for?

“Who else knew about us coming here today?” Madelyn asked, not meaning to sound so serious. If this man in black was after the forgotten intel that Railroad agents had died to protect, then he had to belong to the same organization that killed them in the first place. Remembering the facade, she smiled.

He squeezed her hand, either in realization or as part of their charade. “Are you implying we have a mole?”

“Mole, _rat_ ,” she shrugged, as if he was talking about something else. The waitress returned with their orders and he stared into his coffee for a long moment before taking a sip. “Afraid it’s been poisoned?”

He chuckled, genuinely this time. “Remember, you can’t trust everyone.”

“Even you?”

Deacon’s fingers flexed against hers again and he flashed a smirk behind the rim of his cup. “Especially me.”

Madelyn didn’t have very long to think about if he was bluffing when she realized the well-dressed man was now advancing towards them. The way Deacon’s foot shifted against her heel told her he also knew they were about to be cornered. She started to run through a myriad of scenarios—one of which included throwing hot coffee—but she wondered if there was something a little more dignified she could do.

Her Railroad partner looked to her, eyebrow arched with a devious expression. “Want to lean over the table and—”

“ _No_ —”

“Mads?”

It happened simultaneously, the familiar voice echoing out across the diner—their saving grace—but also Madelyn’s absolute horror. Jennifer Lands came striding over, green heels loud against the tile and matching skirt a flutter as she ducked around the booths to stand right next to their table, circumventing the stranger not a moment too soon. For a moment, Madelyn thought he was going to interrupt but he moved on, flashing one last lingering glance over his shoulder at the booth before moving towards the exit. Only then did Madelyn switch her attention to her friend, who appeared overjoyed, grinning like she had won the lottery. Her hands were clasped under her chin as her eyes shifted between the two.

_Oh_. Oh _no_.

Madelyn instinctually pulled her hand away, tucking both beneath the table where she nervously fidgeted with her wedding ring. Deacon straightened his posture, looking too self-satisfied with the change in situation.

“Don’t get shy on account of me,” she beamed, winking at Madelyn. “Won’t you introduce me to your…”

Madelyn was going to regret this. She nodded, gesturing to Deacon. “This is—”

“Humphrey Bogart,” he interrupted, extending his arm.

Jenny giggled, indulging him as she grasped his hand in a polite shake. “It’s not every day you meet a dead celebrity.”

“A friend?” Deacon asked. He used his free hand to point up at Jenny. “I _like_ her.”

Madelyn resisted the urge to groan—to slump into the vinyl diner seat until she could slither underneath the table and out the door not unlike a snake. Or maybe, if she closed her eyes hard enough, she’d spontaneously combust, or she’d wake up and this would have all been a fever dream. Was it possible that she’d inhaled some of the trace amounts of gas while traversing the underground tunnels and was now hallucinating?

“I’m her—”

She snapped herself back to reality before he could say anything—be it the truth or some fantastical lie.

“Jenny, this is Deacon,” she paused, crafting a plausible story in her mind. “He’s an informant for the agency.”

It was obvious Jenny didn’t believe her, still looking at the two expectantly. “You aren’t…on a—”

“ _No_!” Madelyn wouldn’t even let the word come from her friend’s mouth. Deacon smiled, his non-offense to her harsh reaction forcing Jenny to second-guess her observations. The red-head looked ready to question them further when another familiar face appeared from someplace in the diner.

“Jenny isn’t bothering you on the job, now is she?” Nick Valentine—intuition as sharp as ever—gave Madelyn a quick nod. She wasn’t wholly decided on if his presence would make things better or worse. His fiancé seemed to be mulling the information in her mind, still unsure.

Madelyn flashed a toothy smile, gesturing across the table. Her patience was wearing thing. “Nick, you remember our informant from the Memory Den, Deacon.”

Deacon offered a wave. “Nick, you old dog. Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Nick nodded, playing along.

He glanced to Madelyn, and she was surprised to find him neither suspicious nor annoyed but amused. A small smirk was pulling at his lips and she had to wonder if he had witnessed their donut-shop antics too. At least the detective _knew_ why she was in Lexington that day and had the sense to put two and two together, unlike his lady love. Jenny wasn’t privy to the finer details of their work—better to leave her in the dark, for her own safety—even if it led to awkward situations such as this.

“We were just going over that information we discussed,” Madelyn said, discreetly.

On cue, Deacon lifted the thick file of paperwork they had just smuggled out from the Switchboard. “What Charmer said.” 

Nick’s eyes lit up, intrigued. “Is that so?” he rested his hand on Jenny’s back, smiling to his beloved. “Sweetheart, do you mind if I have a private, work-related chat with Madelyn? Shouldn’t take but five minutes.”

“Sure,” the red-head replied, her grin a little too devious as she waved Madelyn out of the diner booth. “I’ll keep Bogie here company.”

At Nick’s confusion, Madelyn shook her head, pulling on her coat as the two moved outside. She gave one last fleeting glance to Deacon, who only grinned. Leaving him alone with Jenny was about as bad as the two of them getting caught by the strange man—she only prayed nothing nefarious came of their conversation. In front of the Slocum’s Joe, she busied herself with pulling her gloves back on while Nick watched.

“So that’s Deacon,” he said—a statement, rather than a question. His eyebrows were raised, expression one of mild disbelief. “Not what I expected.”

“Kind of hard to describe a walking question mark, Nick,” Madelyn replied with a low laugh. “He could also qualify as an asterisk. Maybe one of those squiggly accent lines.”

Nick smiled, the mirth in his expression worrying her a little. “I take it the job went well?”

Madelyn hesitated, wondering how much _he_ had seen inside the donut shop. “Very.”

“Suppose there’s competition for being your partner then,” he responded in a playful tone.

“Hardly,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “I _work_ for the agency. The Railroad isn’t paying me. Unless you count vague lessons on the importance of trust and intuition as currency.” She patted Nick on the shoulder and flashed an over-zealous smile. “Deacon has got nothin’ compared to you.”

The detective laughed, shaking his head. “So that’s why he calls you Charmer.”

Madelyn balked at what Nick was insinuating. “It’s a _codename_. Mysterious, don’t you think?”

“Fitting,” he countered, looking like she had told him some hilarious joke. “The two of you are getting along then?”

She realized that perhaps Nick had brought her outside for ulterior motives. Shouldn’t they be discussing what her and Deacon found rather than their _rapport_? She sighed, deflecting with a shrug. “I can get along with anybody. He’s tolerable, I suppose. He’s incredibly strange, and talks in riddles, and I really need to explain that he doesn’t have to try so hard to get me to laugh—”

_Why’d she say that last part for?_ She broke off, feeling unnerved by the way Nick was looking at her, expression soft with a knowing smile. Madelyn felt her face grow hot despite the chill of the Boston winter air. She avoided his eyes, glancing towards the glass windowpane of the diner where she could just make out Deacon and Jenny sitting, laughing over _something._ Her thoughts betrayed her— _but he’s pretty good at making me laugh, and he isn’t that bad to look at_ —she shook her head sharply, chasing the idea away.

“If I could make an observation,” Nick started, hesitantly. His hand rested on her shoulder, catching her attention. “I haven’t seen you so chatty and bright in a long time. Not since—”

Madelyn’s mood shifted dramatically, and she frowned up at her friend. “Since what, Nick?”

He winced, knowing he misspoke. In true Valentine fashion, he rebounded as well as he could. “It’s a good look, Madelyn.”

This is why she didn’t get close to new people—it only caused a myriad of confusing emotions. In spite of the turbulence she felt, deep down she knew Nick had a point. One she didn’t feel like admitting to yet, but a point, nonetheless. Her newfound partnership with Deacon—one she had resisted at first—had been surprisingly _natural_. Too natural, apparently. Now, she felt even more conflicted, and the guilt she’d been carrying around for more than a year threatened to flood her senses.

She put on a brave face, like she always did. “Thank you.”

Nick grimaced, breathing out in defeat. She knew he meant well, but the timing still wasn’t right for her. Her happiness was important, yes, but so was the job. They had bigger proverbial fish to fry. Just when she thought to speak on what they’d found beneath the Slocum’s Joe, Jenny’s jovial laugher echoed out into the Boston streets. Deacon followed behind her, boisterous as he retold some wild tale about spying for the agency in Scollay Square. They approached, unaware of the lingering tension in the air.

“I like him,” Jenny mused, nuzzling herself up to Nick’s side as she grasped his hand.

Madelyn found Deacon beside her, but showed some restraint and did not reach out to touch her in any way. She wasn’t sure how to feel about it—pushing the fleeting thoughts away as he flashed her a smirk. “Everybody likes me. Isn’t that right, Charmer?”

“Careful,” she chided in a playful tone, if only to keep the atmosphere light. “You’ll start to sound like a jelly-filled donut.”

The group laughed, and with a quick glance to the detective, he took the cue from Madelyn. “Are you heading home? I can drive you there on the way to Jenny’s hospital shift.”

If she had to guess, if only for a moment, Deacon looked disappointed as he dug for his own keys from the never-ending void that was his coat pockets. No doubt he knew where she lived, but a little voice in her head was telling her that it was time to depart for today and regroup later. _Much_ later—after she’d had some time to think and recharge—and go over that hastily scribbled list of pros and cons again.

“Yes, thank you,” she agreed, turning to face her Railroad companion as Nick escorted Jenny to his parked Cadillac nearby. Madelyn hoped to end their interaction on a positive note. “Would you call today successful?” 

Deacon smiled as he nodded, patting his coat where he had tucked the documents away. “We got what we came for. Its best we split up and meet back at the church.”

She silently agreed but didn’t move right away to catch up with the others. Even though she had just mentally reprimanded herself, she couldn’t let herself walk away without speaking the truth. “We make a good team.” 

“The best,” he replied, delighted by her comment. He nodded, tipping his hat slightly. “See you soon, Charmer.”  
  


* * *

  
Back in the comfort of her apartment, Madelyn spent most of the evening the same way she had spent the weekend—pacing in a nervous line from her kitchen to her couch, from her couch to the hallway and everywhere in between. She had added more notes, scribbled thoughts and emotions to her _Railroad List_ , reading them over and over as she poured generously from her whiskey bottle with each refill. Even with all the new additions after her escapade at the Switchboard, there was one glaring omission.

_Deacon_.

Just thinking of the man made her feel uneasy, and not for the paranoid reasons she once held. No, that would be far easier. Instead, she was frustrated by how easily he had gotten past her defenses, knocking down the perfectly built walls she had put up around her heart and mind ever since Christmas 1956. She was capable of being a bubbly, _charming_ person—but it wasn’t supposed to happen so quickly, especially with a practical stranger. _Especially_ with somebody she wasn’t sure she could trust. Wasn’t that what he had been trying to teach her in the first place? 

Nick and Jenny’s observations only made matters worse. In the end, Madelyn only felt conflicted and a compounding amount of guilt—like she had somehow betrayed Nate by letting somebody, _anybody_ get under her skin. Regardless of what Nick, or any of her friends said, she was sure that she didn’t deserve that kind of happiness—not when her late husband’s murderer was still free.

Dogmeat whined, intuitive to her emotions, and she sought comfort in petting the dog, beckoning him to follow her down the hallway so they could get some sleep after a long day. As she passed through the hall, she double backed to the open storage closet, peering inside, just as she had done on Christmas day. Instead of continuing on however, a strange compulsion to inspect the large, dusty box in the corner came over her. The last present she’d ever received from Nate, left unwrapped and hidden for her discover in the garage of the home they once shared. A General Atomics logo was plastered atop the box and below it in white cursive letters read, _Mister Handy_. Dogmeat shuffled between her legs to get a better look.

“What do you think, boy?” she asked. “Should we open the box?”

He barked, signifying his approval. After the weekend she’d had, perhaps it was time to activate the robot. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a Mister Handy around to help, as her husband had intended. If anything, the extra company—even one built on artificial intelligence—would do her some good. Still, the action would prove to be a large step in the so-called grieving process. Dogmeat barked again, and she focused, steadying herself as she began lifting the flaps.

Curiously, the manufacturers seal had already been broken. As soon as the box was opened, Madelyn knew why—atop the shiny surface of the robot was an envelope. In Nate’s distantly familiar handwriting were two words: _Hi Honey!_ Her entire body seized up as she let out a quiet sob, suddenly overwhelmed. Through clouded eyes, she pulled the box out of the closet and into the hallway, carefully tipping it over so she could extract the heavy metal frame of the deactivated Mister Handy unit. She sat on the carpet next to the robot, Dogmeat sniffing at the metallic surface as she carefully opened the letter from Nate.

_Maddie,_

_I’ve been thinking a lot about our future, thinking about the possibility of welcoming a child into our lives. Lord knows I’ve been having fun trying for one—practice makes perfect, right? I’ve also been thinking about all the preparations we’ve made for building our family: the crib, the tiny clothes, even joking about potential names. It sounds foolish but even one child, one little life created with you would be enough, no matter how long it takes._

_I know you’re a fiercely independent and modern woman who likes to take care of herself, but with our plans to grow our family, I was thinking we could use an extra hand. Or three. Regardless of ol’ Codsworth here, I know you will be an amazing mother._

_I love you so much. You are my best friend and my saving grace. The first and last thing I think about in the morning and at night. You have made me so incredibly happy. If I should die tomorrow, I’d die a happy man._

_-Nate_

_PS: Did you know twins run in my family?_

Reading his words left a new kind of pain in her heart, a fresh reminder of the plans they had before his life had been cut short. How prophetic of him, to leave such a statement about his assumed death. Madelyn wasn’t sure when the note was written, but it had to have been shortly before that fateful night in Boston Common. With his letter were the General Atomic factory instructions, along with more of Nate’s handwritten scribbles indicating which steps she could skip and simple hacks—a cheat sheet from beyond the pale.

After twisting the upper chassis, she found and pressed the activation button until the robot whirled back to life with a series of beeps and garbled words. Almost immediately it was floating midair, eye-sensors adjusting to its environment. Madelyn stood to be as level as she could with the unit, the way it hovered allowed the machinery to tower over her. Her reflection was distorted in the shiny surface of the Mister Handy as she stared at it, suddenly wondering if this had been a good idea after all.

“You must be Mrs. James,” the robot declared joyously, his three metal arms spinning as if to express that delight, barely missing her body. “I am _Codsworth_. Your new butler. Oh, how wonderful it is to finally meet you. Sir has spoken so much—”

She couldn’t help the strangled gasp of a cry that escaped her, snapping a hand over her mouth to prevent further disruptions. Hearing this robot—Codsworth—speak so casually as if nothing was amiss made reality come crashing down around her all over again. He floated a little closer.

“Have I upset you, mum?” Codsworth asked in a sullen tone.

Madelyn shook her head in earnest, wiping away her tears on the sleeve of her dress. “No, of course not. Codsworth honey,” she sniffled, baffled by her own term of endearment for the Mister Handy unit. Perhaps the overly posh British accent had gotten to her. But now came the awkward explanation of telling a _robot_ that his master was long dead. “It isn’t you. You should know that…Mr. James is no longer with us.”

“Oh, where has he gone off to?”

She closed her eyes, hoping she wouldn’t have to be so blunt. “He’s dead, Codsworth. Died before he could gift you to me.”

Expressionless, mechanical eyes ‘blinked’ back at her, processing what she had just said. “Well, I’m here now, mum,” he spoke. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss. Sir was so kind when activating me and said so many lovely things about you,” his tone shifted to one of determination. “I look forward to fulfilling the duties I was meant to, if you’ll allow.”

As silly as Madelyn felt to be comforted by a floating Mister Handy unit, she couldn’t help but smile at his words. In a gesture of kindness, she placed her hand against his metal frame, wondering if he—or the wires in his mainframe that made up his personality—understood. It would take some adjustment, but she could get used to having a disembodied voice in her home—the thought made her smile even more.

“Of course, Codsworth,” she agreed. Madelyn released a breath and felt like a weight had been lifted off her chest. This had been a long time coming. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were a legendary Hollywood couple that stared in a lot of movies together; their romantic chemistry is palpable! Bacall’s first movie was in To Have and Have Not (1944) when she was 19 and the two fell in love on the set—the rest is history. The two continued to star in many Noir films that have inspired many of the tropes (and chapter titles) found throughout this story! 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	6. Do It Simply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Madelyn have a heart-to-heart while on a stakeout in Quincy. After some time apart, Deacon shows up at Madelyn’s apartment encouraging her to give the Railroad another chance. When she agrees, Desdemona sends them to a Bunker Hill contact who needs assistance in smuggling somebody out of the Commonwealth—somebody who may have been witness to Eddie Winter’s crimes. Outside of the Ticonderoga safehouse, a suspicious man catches Deacon’s eye and the entire operation goes up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _🎵 Dream Lover_ – Bobby Darin

_“If you're going to kill someone, do it simply.” -_ Johnnie Aysgarth as played by Cary Grant ( _Suspicion_ , 1941)

* * *

**February 11 th, 1958 **

“I should’ve warned you this would turn into a stakeout.”

Madelyn shivered as she glanced over to Nick from the passenger seat of his Cadillac, tugging the collar of her coat around her shoulders a little tighter. Of all the times they had decided to follow Eddie Winter across town, it had to be the night when a flurry had delivered nearly three inches of snow. Needless to say, she was _freezing_ , half tempted to bum one of Nick’s cigarettes if only to heat up her body in some way. The smoke from his own wafted in the air above his head as he mumbled incoherently, binoculars glued toward the building a few hundred feet away. They’d been sitting like that for a few hours with no movement.

“Damn Winter, thinking we have all night to sit on him,” he muttered, cigarette bobbing between his lips.

“It’s not like we have much else going for us,” Madelyn replied, sifting through the small stack of case files across her lap, ones she had brought with them in their mad dash to Quincy. Ever since the Earl Sterling case, their primary focus had been on Eddie Winter’s activities, mostly because the agency hadn’t received a new job in weeks. There had been dry spells before, but this time it was obvious they were being punished by the Boston Police Department for their involvement in capturing Doctor Crocker. It wasn’t fair, it never was, but there was little they could do but keep investigating.

“Don’t remind me,” Nick grumbled, lowering the binoculars to look at her. “Are we sure this is the right place?”

She hummed, flicking through the various files. They were all labeled in her neat handwriting— _WINTER_ —filled with various leads and rumors from the street, one of which had led them to the Quincy police department. With a nod, Madelyn flashed a sideways smile. “Maybe they’ve got a secret underground bunker.”

Nick wasn’t about to dismiss anything, eyebrow quirking up. “You might be onto something there.”

She softly chuckled, scribbling the words down, even if she felt foolish—not every organization in town had an underground tunnel system, right? As Nick continued to scope out the building, she flicked through her notebook absentmindedly until a loose-leaf of paper fluttered down to her feet. She had nearly forgotten about it, the instructions Drummer Boy had dropped off nearly two weeks ago, directing her to another meeting with the Railroad. Her conscious reprimanded her for making up an excuse for not attending, but at the time, she wasn’t ready to face the group again.

She hadn’t seen Desdemona—or Deacon—since their little adventure beneath Slocum’s Joe. Foolishly, she believed that space would set her mind straight, that her emotions would level out after introspection and some time alone. What she hadn’t realized was that her life had already been drastically altered: Nick believed the Railroad to be a valuable ally, she had an agent for a neighbor, and despite everything, she couldn’t get that stupid, silly, enigmatic man named Deacon out of her mind.

“Another mysterious note?”

“What?” Madelyn snapped her eyes up and over to where Nick was looking back to her with all the curiosity in the world. She couldn’t lie to him, not when it was his job to find the truth. “More or less of the same, requesting me to visit their headquarters beneath the church again. It’s…outdated though. I didn’t go.”

“You _have_ been spending a lot more time at the agency,” he mentioned, stubbing out his smoke in the tiny metal tray of the Cadillac’s center console. “You ready to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head?”

“Don’t flatter me, Nick,” she playfully chastised, before shifting as her legs became restless. “We don’t have to cut the Railroad out as a point of contact, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He didn’t say anything, but the detective always had a certain look about him, a glimmer to his eyes when he knew there was more to the story being told. She sighed, staring back down at the typewritten note and continued. “I just…needed some time.”

Nick took a moment, glancing out the window to confirm that there had yet to be any movement on the building they were watching. Only then did he divert his full attention to her.

“I’ve been meaning to apologize,” he paused, waving his hand in protest when she went to interject. What did he have to say sorry for? “I overstepped some boundaries a few weeks ago, insinuated something I shouldn’t’ve between you and that Deacon fellow.”

Madelyn wasn’t upset with Nick, but hearing his words was somewhat comforting. Though, she was sure she would’ve been in her head about the situation regardless of the lighthearted teasing from her partner and his fiancé. She should be the one apologizing—for dragging her feet, for being distracted, for being stuck in the past. Nick wasn’t the only one she owed that to, but she didn’t dwell on that thought.

“My only hope is that one day, not _tomorrow_ or even this year,” Nick said, treading lightly. “Is that you will be able to move on. It doesn’t have to be with the first handsome guy you meet that makes you smile, but you don’t deserve to live out the rest of your days alone. I don’t want to pretend to know what Nate would’ve wanted for you,” he hesitated, reaching over to place his hand over hers. The cold material of the prosthetic sent a shiver up her arm, but otherwise, his touch was comforting as always. “But this isn’t it.”

Madelyn knew that Nick was right—almost hated that he was. But she couldn’t be mad at his advice, or the mild-mannered way he delivered it. If she had been paying attention, he’d been gently nudging her towards this for months—the grieving counseling sessions, dinner parties, case work that had her interacting with all sorts of people. Her friend was doing the best he could to ensure she had all the opportunities to break out of the shell she had buried herself in for the past year, and for that she was grateful.

“I know,” she finally admitted, a truth that made her stomach uneasy. It was freeing, but the remorse still lingered. “Its tough Nick, to let people in. Not like before when I could trust everyone and anyone despite years of law school telling me otherwise,” she softly laughed, more to herself. “But now? I have my support group. I have my friends. To let anyone else in is dangerous, and to let anyone too close is _foolish_.”

She didn’t necessarily mean to think about a specific person—certainly _not_ a certain Railroad agent who had stirred up these emotions within her in the first place—she tried to focus on the broader aspect of what Nick was stating.

“You’re right, but it’s _so hard_ ,” she steadied her breath so she wouldn’t break down in a fit of sobs like she had been doing so often in the last few weeks when she thought about her departed husband. Codsworth, her newly activated Mister Handy butler, wasn’t sure what to make of her outbursts. “I think of Nate, and the guilt is overbearing. It isn’t right—not when he’s dead, his killer still out there somewhere. I don’t get to move on like nothing happened.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Nick contended, calmly. He fidgeted, lighting up a new cigarette to calm his nerves, or perhaps get rid of the chill surrounding them from the snow outside the vehicle. “What I’m saying is that you should take one day at a time, just as you’ve been doing. Just—” he paused to exhale a small cloud of smoke, waving it away from her. “Be less afraid, especially when somebody dares to breach the walls around your heart.”

Madelyn let his words resonate with her and really settle in her mind. Ever since Nate’s death she had been taking life slowly, but at the cost of living a half-life. She wasn’t herself—hadn’t been for a long while—and even she knew it was well past a reasonable time to be wallowing in self-pity. Perhaps it would be okay to let her guard down, allow her personality to shine after months of fading to the background. She needed to do right by her husband’s memory and _live_ —she couldn’t do that if she was constantly torturing herself. Finally, she nodded, signaling to her partner that she understood. More than that, she agreed.

“Speaking of the heart,” she deftly changed the subject, flashing a teasing grin. “Valentine’s Day is this Friday. Have any plans with Jenny?”

Nick smirked, anticipating nothing less from her. “If I didn’t have plans, it would be a disservice to the family name, don’t you think? Jenny would have me take _her_ name at the registrar’s office.”

“Mr. Lands,” Madelyn snickered. “Lands’ Detective Agency,” she tested, imagining the flashing neon light that hung above the office door. “God Nick, we’re already suffering enough. We don’t need a name change to put a nail in the coffin.”

“Good thing I’ve got Friday in the bag then,” he smiled, without any indication he planned to indulge any details. “The future _Mrs. Valentine_ won’t be disappointed.”

Rather than be jealous, she could only be happy for Nick and Jenny—two people that were so in love and so impeccably made for each other it was surprising they had waited so long to tie the knot. Madelyn was too close of a friend with both of them to feel anything but joy for their relationship, even when she had nobody to go home to after long nights on the job. Well, nobody except Dogmeat and Codsworth.

Maybe her time for happiness would come sooner, rather than later, if she allowed it.

“It’s late,” Nick spoke, interrupting her thoughts. He lifted the binoculars to take one last glance towards the Quincy police station, confirming there had been no further movement. “Time to call this a bust?”

Madelyn agreed. “Bust.”  
  


* * *

**  
February 14 th, 1958 **

Madelyn could hear Bobby Darin playing on the radio from the kitchen as she sat at her vanity that morning, smiling to herself as she listened to Codsworth rummaging around and yammering on while he conversed with Dogmeat in the kitchen. A year ago, she would’ve never assumed she would one day find this aspect of her life normal or comforting, but now, she couldn’t imagine her apartment without the robot butler or German Shepard.

After three weeks, she had finally adjusted to having Codsworth activated, the Mister Handy robot proving to be convenient in more ways than one. At first, it was alarming at how devoted he was to serve her—anticipating her every need and hovering over her every action. Madelyn was appreciative, but being the independent woman that she was, set some ground-rules for the robot to follow so she wouldn’t feel so crowded or coddled in her own home. With some semblance of a routine, she felt her life taking shape once again—even if it seemed more suited for a television sitcom starring Betty White.

She had just finished adjusting her curls when there was a knock at the door, the sound echoing through the hall to her bedroom. Codsworth’s chipper voice resonated from the front room after a few mysterious clanks of her pots and pans. “I shall see who is at the door, mum!”

For a fleeting moment, she figured it must be Nick, there for an early morning visit on his way to the agency. They would typically car-pool to the Fens district throughout the week but as she glanced to her flip calendar on the table, she realized her partner had more important obligations— _Valentine’s Day_. That’s when her mind switched over and began running through the rather short list of possible visitors who would be at her door before eight on a Friday morning. Piper would’ve called first. Jenny was with Nick. MacCready didn’t know where she lived, neither did Hancock—at least she hoped that was true. Drummer Boy would’ve slipped a note under the door. Madelyn groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose at the possibility it was Deacon.

“Miss Madelyn!” Codsworth sounded confused as he called for her and she was already standing, tightly securing the tie of her silken robe around her body for decency’s sake before striding down the hall towards the living room. The robot was hovering before her open front door. “This man _claims_ to be the milkman, but I do believe we’ve already received our delivery for the week. Is this another alteration to the schedule?”

_It was definitely Deacon_.

She sighed, rolling her eyes as she approached to stand next to Codsworth, if only to confirm what she already suspected. Bright smile, black hair styled up and _of course_ —it wouldn’t be Deacon without his darkened shades. At least the milkman costume was a nice touch. She had to admit that the effort the man went through for an act was impressive, if not amusing.

“I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me, Charmer,” he frowned, though she could tell he was bluffing.

Madelyn glanced to her Mister Handy unit, who—if she had gotten any better at reading the machine—appeared bewildered. “Codsworth, honey, what did I say about opening the door to strange men?”

“Oh! Right!” he exclaimed, raising his arms in defense. He moved so the bulk of his frame blocked her from Deacon’s view. “Shall I _stick_ ‘em mum?”

She couldn’t contain her laughter, snapping a hand to cover her mouth at the sight of Codsworth hovering threateningly before Deacon, dressed in all-white with an equally entertained expression. She stepped closer, resting a hand against the robot’s cold metal frame. “That won’t be necessary, dear. I was only joking.”

“Are you to say you know this…milkman?” Codsworth questioned, before spinning his arms frantically as he moved back into the apartment on his way towards the kitchen. “Will he be joining us for breakfast? I will need to prepare another plate!”

Before she could interject or protest, Deacon was crossing the threshold with a beaming grin. He was carrying a metal basket just as a real milk deliveryman would and she wondered where he had managed to find such a convincing getup. Instead of white bottles rattling inside there was a brown packaged box and a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in parchment. Madelyn sidestepped around him to the door and contemplated asking him politely to leave but decided against being rude. She owed him a face-to-face conversation after so many weeks of silence.

“A Mister Handy unit?” Deacon spoke before she could, turning to face her. “I guess everybody needs a three-eyed metal husband.”

Madelyn snickered, glancing over to where Codsworth was balancing several tasks at once—eggs over the stove, coffee on the pot and bread in the toaster—all the while humming along to whatever song was filtering through the nearby radio. “Remind me to look into the legalities of marrying artificial intelligence. He may be flighty, but he knows his way around the kitchen.” 

“You just haven’t had _me_ cook you breakfast yet,” Deacon replied matter-of fact. He lifted the basket he carried, changing the subject before she could respond to his remark. “I come bearing gifts.”

She nodded towards the kitchen island, motioning for him to sit on one of the barstools while she circled to the other side. It was a calculated move, wanting to put as much space between them as possible for now. Deacon placed the box on the counter and nudged it towards her. “This is from Irma. Said she couldn’t believe you walked out last time without one.”

Madelyn opened the package to discover a freshly baked blueberry pie, the smell an instant trigger for her mind, sending her back to the brief visit within the Memory Den. At least that all but confirmed what she already suspected—that Irma worked for the Railroad in some capacity. Deacon tapped a few fingers against the empty plate set before him and she sighed before turning to rummage through a drawer for a pie-cutter. Facing away from him, she heard his small chuckle.

“That’s a delicate little number you’ve got on,” he commented. She wasn’t alarmed by his statement, almost expecting it—if anything, she was glad to hear the mirth in his tone as if their quickly formed dynamic hadn’t changed.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, watching as he poured two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice from the pitcher Codsworth had placed. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”

Deacon let out a low whistle. “Silk and lace says otherwise, Charmer.”

“Had to look nice for my metal husband on Valentine’s Day,” she joked, sliding up to Codsworth who was none-the-wiser. It was a shame the robot had a difficult time processing sarcasm. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Mum, I do hope you aren’t planning on spoiling breakfast by eating that pie,” he responded, ruining her act. The Handy unit returned to preparing their morning meal, crisping the bacon on the griddle pan. Dogmeat whined as he circled around the kitchen island, stopping to sniff at Deacon’s feet. He regarded the dog with a smile before lifting the second item from the metal basket, handing the flowers to her and swapping for the pie cutter.

Madelyn examined the bunch of white daisies mixed with blue forget-me-nots, inhaling their sweet scent as she looked over at him. He was cutting slices, ignoring the way Codsworth was peering at him with one, zoomed in eye. The significance of the flowers wasn’t lost on her— _forget-me-nots_ —it wasn’t entirely subtle, even for Deacon. She searched through her cabinets for a vase, delicately arranging the stems and petals as she poured some water inside.

“Irma insisted I couldn’t show up to your place empty handed, given the holiday,” he explained. “As you can imagine, all the flower shops from North End to Cambridge were out of roses.”

She had a difficult time determining if he was being sincere, or if he had really gone through the effort. For all she knew, he could’ve bummed the bouquet off some unsuspecting fella on the street corner. Madelyn decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that he had scoured all the floral shops along the Charles River just for her sake.

“I prefer these,” she replied with a soft smile. He regarded her with a softer expression, though she would’ve liked to know what his eyes looked like behind the sunglasses. Madelyn had resigned herself to the simple fact that she likely never would and would have to guess that they were trained on her—it certainly _felt_ that way, with how her skin tickled with goosebumps.

“Good,” he replied, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. Deacon poked at the slice of blueberry pie he had set on the plate before him with a fork, scooping up a generous bite. “One bite won’t hurt.”

It wasn’t until his arm started moving across the counter space that she realized what his intentions were, and she reflexively stepped back, bumping into Codsworth who was ready to serve their food. She scrambled to move out of the way, realizing the only place for her was the empty barstool next to Deacon. Reluctantly, she joined him on the other side, unable to ignore the way he was still holding the utensil out in offering with a ridiculous, expectant smile. Madelyn braced her nerves and reminded herself it could be another exercise in trust—a rather _bizarre_ exercise—and leaned over the short distance, wrapping her lips around the fork to take the bite. To his credit, the blueberry pie _was_ delicious and so was his momentarily shocked appearance—he hadn’t expected her to comply.

“Breakfast is served!” Codsworth interrupted their strange encounter with his announcement, metal arms whizzing around as he placed the steaming piles of food on the center counter.

The two served themselves, eating in a comfortable silence with the occasional sideways glance and shared smile. The robot continued to whirr as he floated around looking for a new task to attend to while Dogmeat successfully begged for bacon scraps at their feet. Madelyn quickly noticed how domestic the scene looked and felt, even with Deacon dressed up as some imposter milkman. Just like having the dog and the Mister Handy unit was abnormally _normal_ , she felt a strange sense of calm with having the Railroad spy next to her. She wasn’t ready to confront what deeper emotions she possibly had whispering beneath the surface, but intuition told her it was time to stop running and let fate do its job.

“I’ll be honest,” she started, clearing her throat as she set her napkin down. “I may have been avoiding the Railroad.”

“So, it wasn’t just me?” Deacon teasingly asked. “Listen, I know our organization can be a handful, intimidating even. You haven’t even met the rest of the gang yet. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted out,” he paused, head turned towards her. “It’d be a damn shame though.”

“I participated in _one_ job,” she replied. “If you could call me following you around underground in a sewer participation. How is that impressive in any way?”

“I’m easy that way,” he shrugged. “Dez calls the shots, not me. Even if I told her you were dead weight, which I wouldn’t dream of describing you as, she doesn’t seem ready to let you go so soon.”

Madelyn had to wonder just _what_ Deacon had described her as to the Railroad leader. Probably something with too many adjectives while being overzealous and dramatic with hand-movements, if she had to guess. She focused on the important part—despite her radio silence, Desdemona wanted her to stay aboard.

“Is that why you’re here now?” she asked. “To check up on _Agent Charmer_? Bring me back into the fold?”

He waved a piece of crispy bacon at her, frowning. “Don’t sell my social calls so short. You won’t see me buying flowers for Drummer Boy.”

“Maybe he should invest in silk nightgowns,” she joked, snatching half the piece of meat from his hand.

He let out an airy chuckle while she chewed, eating the rest that he had before shaking his head. “Dez doesn’t know I’m here. She thinks I’m at Bunker Hill, working on setting up a meeting with one of our old contacts. I thought I’d see if my _partner_ wanted to join in on the fun before I go.”

The fact he still considered her his partner after one Railroad outing was endearing. Madelyn still had her reservations, but she knew the organization deserved more than to be written off after one excursion. She softly laughed to herself. “What is with you guys and tourist traps?”

Deacon’s smile gradually increased. “What can I say? We’re a quirky, history loving bunch.”

“What’s the job this time?” she asked, curiously.

“Carrington asked me to find out if one our old Bunker Hill contacts, Old Man Stockton, was still in operation,” he began. “He was a big player back when we were moving people regularly in and out of the city. Now that we’re down on our luck, he’s gone back to his old line of work.”

“Under our current circumstances, we wouldn’t accept an escort job, but the Doc made it sound imperative the subject be moved as soon as possible,” Deacon explained further. “If Dez cleared it, then we’re in the green to proceed.”

Madelyn was astounded by the notion that they could and _would_ help a person willingly disappear but figured an individual must be desperate to turn to an underground organization instead of vanishing on their own. She wanted to know more and the only way to do that was to go along with Deacon again.

“What do you say, Charmer?” he asked, one eyebrow arced high above his shades.

She nodded, flashing a tiny grin. “You’ve got yourself a partner, Deacon.”

He laughed, reaching over to clasp his hand on her shoulder as he brought her in for a quick, sideways hug. Madelyn was startled by the show of friendliness but didn’t express it, swiftly channeling her alarm into ease—she didn’t mind the warmth and feel of his hand on her at all—she actually _liked_ it. He leaned away, fingers trailing across her back before withdrawing fully.

“You know,” he said in a sing-song way. “I noticed you don’t flinch away from physical contact. You aren’t shy. Unlike most people.”

“ _Most people_ are uncomfortable with the notion of physical touch, sure,” Madelyn agreed. It figured he had been studying her behavior. “I—I find it comforting.”

Deacon turned to her and she could feel his stare through the reflective shades. Heat spread through her chest the longer the silence stretched between them until his lips pulled up into a sideways smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  


* * *

**  
February 16 th, 1958 **

On Sunday, Deacon returned to Madelyn’s apartment with a dead drop from Old Man Stockton, confirming the rendezvous point in which a face-to-face meeting would occur. They were to meet the Bunker Hill contact at the Cambridge Catholic Assembly church after dark, long after the parishioners had gone home for the day. The two had been sitting in the empty church for what felt like hours, occupying one of the last few pews while they waited for Stockton to arrive. Madelyn found herself distracted by the moonlight pouring in through the picture frame windows of the towering steeple, dumbfounded that once again she found herself in a place of worship. Just as she began reminiscing about Nate’s funeral service and the hymns the priest sung, she shut her eyes tight, blocking the memory from overpowering her thoughts.

Deacon’s gloved hand bumped against hers. “Charmer?”

“Tourist traps, churches,” she mused. “Why can’t it be amusement parks?”

“You don’t want to know who runs Nuka World,” he mumbled, fingers idly trailing along her wrist where her watch rested until she opened her eyes. “I didn’t expect it to take this long. If we’ve been had…”

“I hope not,” she replied, glancing down to confirm it was midnight. “At this rate, you’ll owe me breakfast.”

He grinned and nudged his shoulder against hers. “I _did_ promise you I, didn’t I?”

The church’s front door squeaked open, interrupting the two from their banter and they stood to meet the approaching visitors. Two men, an older one dressed in a business suit and coat, the younger one dressed in shabbier denim with a winter jacket and cap. The older gentleman approached as the other stood back, looking anxious.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” he asked, signaling the Railroad key phrase.

“Mine is in the shop,” Deacon replied in kind. “Stockton, good to see you. Carrington sends his regards.”

Stockton nodded, though he didn’t seem concerned with pleasantries as he observed their surroundings before gesturing to the younger man. “I won’t be long. This is Henry. Henry, these are the people I talked to you about,” he shifted towards the back window where a lantern was. “I’ll fire up the signal.”

Madelyn extended her arm to Henry. “Nice to meet you,” she offered politely. “You can call me…Charmer.”

The man nervously gripped her hand and shook it meekly. “Thank you.”

“Time for me to go,” Stockton stated, still scanning the church as if he was waiting for someone or _something_ to jump out and discover them. “Keep Henry safe. Someone will be here shortly.”

He regarded Deacon with one last steely look before making a swift exit. Madelyn glanced to her partner in confusion, wondering if the _Old Man’s_ departure was all part of the plan. He shrugged but didn’t appear nervous about the change—she’d never seen Deacon anything but calm and collected, anything to the contrary would be alarming. The three stood quietly, Henry continuing to keep his distance as the lantern burned in the window. At twelve-thirty, footsteps echoed outside the church, but the doors didn’t open right away. Madelyn and Deacon exchanged a quick glance and at the sound of more rustling, she withdrew her pistol from her handbag—she figured he might be carrying as well but insisted if either of them was going to brandish a weapon it was going to be the one with connections to the District Attorney’s office.

The two blocked Henry from sight as the large oak door finally creaked open and a figure shadowed by the night creeped in. Unable to determine if they were friend or foe, Madelyn trained her weapon, even if she wasn’t entirely convinced that she would be able to shoot. Upon noticing the group standing near the pews the intruder stopped dead in his tracks, raising his hands defensively.

“Don’t shoot!” he exclaimed before hesitantly taking a few steps closer. Under the dim lighting, she observed the man’s appearance closely—dark skin, warm brown eyes and a black hair shaved down to the stubble. Even though it was still blistering cold out, he seemed unbothered, wearing only jeans, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket with some laced-up Chucks. Even with a gun pointed at him, the man smiled. “Charmer, right?”

He flicked his gaze to her side but didn’t dare to move his arms. “And my man, Deacon. Still wearing sunglasses at night?”

Before her partner could react, she intervened. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Right you are,” he responded, impressed. “Mine is in the shop. All good?”

Madelyn looked to Deacon who nodded, flashing a grin. “High Rise, it’s been a while.”

“Three months since I’ve seen your ugly mug,” High Rise laughed as they exchanged a firm but friendly handshake. He glanced over to Madelyn with cheeky smile as she made to place her pistol back into her purse. “So, this is Charmer? The one who helped with the Switchboard, while you sat on the sidelines.”

She shot a raised eyebrow in Deacon’s direction, but he only offered a sheepish shrug in return. She could only imagine the kind of fanatical stories he had been spreading about her while she had been away. High Rise continued, reaching his hand out to her. “Glad you joined the team.”

Madelyn reciprocated his handshake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Honor’s all mine,” he replied before tilting his head to get a better look at Henry who had hunkered down in one of the pews. “How’s our friend doing?”

With all the attention suddenly focused on him, Henry slouched further back into the wooden seat. Madelyn took a few cautious steps closer, not wanting to startle him any further. “Are you alright?”

“Mister Stockton…he said I shouldn’t talk too much,” he replied in a shaky voice, eyes darting between the group of people standing. She sat down next to him, deciding to take a softer approach.

“Would you like to tell me what brought you here?” she asked, carefully. At his silence, she nodded, encouraging him. “You can trust us, Henry. We’ll protect you.”

He still seemed skeptical—lips twisted to the side as he avoided looking at any of them. “I—I need to get as far away from Boston as possible,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m afraid for my life.”

“What’s got you so spooked?” Deacon questioned.

Henry shook his head, remaining tightlipped. “If I say, you’d be in danger too.”

“We’re already helping you get out of the city,” High Rise pointed out the flaw in Henry’s resistance. “Might as well double down and let us know of any potential threats coming our way.”

Another moment of silence passed as Henry contemplated answering, fidgeting in the church pew. Finally, he breathed out, looking to Madelyn like a safe haven. “I witnessed a murder. Not just _any_ murder. Last month, I was working as a dockhand on the Harbor when I saw the car pull up—”

Madelyn started adding up the details in her head and interrupted, nearly blurting out the words. “Johnny Montrano Junior?”

Henry’s eyes widened in shock and realization. “Y— _yes_ , how do you know?”

“Some of us have day jobs,” Deacon assured, raising his eyebrows at Madelyn, silently reminding her to reel it in. “Nothing to worry about, we’re still _the good guys_.”

She nodded in agreement, desperately hoping he would believe them and continue. Henry took a deep breath before resuming his story. “It was late, and I was the last to leave the warehouse but when I saw the men and the guns I ran and hid behind some crates.”

“What did you see?” Madelyn asked.

What she wouldn’t give to have a tape deck to record his statements—she wondered if she’d ever be able to compel him to speak again, if she could ever track him down after he disappeared. Even with Deacon and High Rise as bystanders, a court would likely dismiss it as hearsay unless they heard it directly from the witness himself—probably why Henry wanted to leave Boston in the first place. 

Henry shivered, eyes glossed over in memory. “ _Everything_.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” High Rise spoke, signaling to the dwindling flame in the lantern. “But we shouldn’t hang around here. We can talk more once we get Henry to the safehouse.”

Madelyn’s wanted to argue but she instinctively knew that staying in the church wasn’t the safest choice. She stood, straightening the lines of her dark coat—Deacon had insisted she wear it so they could not only blend into the shadows but _coordinate_.

“Safe to assume Ticonderoga has been moved, right?” he asked, looking towards High Rise for the answer.

He nodded in answer. “If you drive, I can show you the way. It’s not far.”

Madelyn chose to sit in the backseat of Deacon’s Volkswagen with Henry, wanting to gleam more information about the night he witnessed Johnny Montrano’s murder. Deacon held the door open for her, closing it even though High Rise had yet to climb into the passenger seat and the two exchanged a laugh about it while she retrieved a notebook from her purse. The engine roared to life and slowly they drove away from the Cambridge church. 

“So, you having fun yet, Charmer?” High Rise’s lighthearted tone caught her off guard. Beside her, Henry shifted uncomfortably. “With Deacon, I mean. Of all the people Dez could’ve paired a rookie with, you got stuck with—”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Deacon interrupted, turning down a street when High Rise directed him to. “We already have a group codename. _The Big Sleep_.”

High Rise chuckled. “You’re no Bogart.”

“That’s what _I_ thought,” Madelyn announced, suppressing her laughter at Deacon’s offended gasp. At the next stop sign, he took a moment to glance over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. To her surprise, even Henry seemed momentarily amused by the group’s antics.

“ _Maybe_ James Dean,” High Rise offered with a hum. “I’m being generous with your age. And if you take the fake pompadour wig into play.”

Deacon grumbled, turning towards the other man with his lips in a straight line. Madelyn thought she would’ve been more surprised, but considering _who_ High Rise was talking about, the revelation wasn’t all the shocking. It also explained why curiously, his eyebrows appeared too fair in color and why his hats never sat straight upon his head. A spy had his secrets, she supposed. Noting the stretch of silence, High Rise shifted, turning as much as possible to face Madelyn.

“Deacon may be a terrible liar, but it pays to have him on your side,” he stated.

Madelyn wondered about that, glancing up at the rearview mirror to catch a glance of Deacon’s reflection. Her own face was mirrored back in the flicker of his shades as he offered a tiny smirk. In the short time she had known him, he had offered up plenty of little white lies—nothing extravagant or harmful—and was evasive enough that she still considered him one giant mystery. Nonetheless, she trusted him, and the stunning realization sent a shockwave through her system.

“Another right up here,” High Rise announced.

Before she had a chance to collect her thoughts, Deacon had pulled the car along the curbside outside a tall, unlit building. She looked to Henry and the notepad in her lap, sighing in resignation—she’d have to ask her questions inside just as it was recommended earlier—there would be time, even if it took all night. High Rise exited the vehicle first, delight in his voice as he pointed up at the skyscraper.

“Home sweet home,” he announced before turning back to lean against the roof, looking in at Deacon and Madelyn. “All in a night’s work for you agent types, huh?”

She smiled. “Just part of the service.”

“I think I’m going to like you even more than Glory,” High Rise responded, cheekily.

Deacon twisted his body, arm slung over the seat to face her and Henry and seemed poised to say something when the car was flooded with light from an advancing vehicle. It parked on the curb behind them and a few moments later, the headlamps went dark as the engine died. Immediately, Madelyn was on edge.

“We were followed,” Henry was quick to assume, scrambling to try and remove himself from the car.

Even though she had difficulty seeing through his glasses, she could tell Deacon had his eyes trained on the other vehicle and the person behind the wheel. From her angle, she couldn’t tell what the immediate danger was. In the quiet, they heard a car door open and close. Minutes passed before the echo of footsteps followed in the opposite direction of where they were. Instead of relief, Deacon tensed, his arm reaching out for her before waving towards High Rise.

“Get Charmer out of here.”

Madelyn didn’t have time to be afraid as High Rise hauled her out of the backseat with little decorum, encouraging her to run in the other direction as he rushed to help Henry. She ran as fast as her heels would allow through the soft blanket of snow, panic building in her chest at the fear of the unknown. For a split second she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder to see how much distance she had made when a faint _click_ echoed across the quiet plaza. At the same time, Deacon was in front of her, his body meeting hers in a swift collision as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, toppling them both to the ground. They were propelled forward by a large explosion—though Madelyn wasn’t sure what had happened until she was flat on the icy gravel, her head pounding and ears ringing from the lingering sound.

Deacon was still perched over her, resting half his body weight atop her as he shielded her from the distant smoke and flames. Madelyn blinked hard, adjusting her vision before realizing that his sunglasses were askew. Even in the dark of night she could see the faintest hint of what was underneath, and her heart skipped a beat. _Blue_. With trembling hands, she reached up, pushing them back into place.

His lips twisted into a small, sideways smirk. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Reality sunk in as he rolled away, the two slowly leaning up to survey the damage. It was clear that the second vehicle had been planted with a bomb, set with a remote trigger and detonated by the mysterious driver. Deacon’s car was practically destroyed, and from where Madelyn was, she couldn’t see Henry or High Rise. But the devastation and intent was evident—they had been followed. The Railroad had been targeted _again_.

Ticonderoga Safehouse had just gone up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon drives (drove) a 1958 cream colored Karmann-Ghia not a Beetle. I wanted to make that perfectly clear because when you say Volkswagen people usually default to Beetle. If you look up what a Karmann-Ghia looks like, I feel like you’d be inclined to agree that it is a very Deacon car. Too bad it went explodey. 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	7. Not on My Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Ticonderoga’s destruction, Madelyn and Deacon seek refuge at Valentine Detective Agency only for their partnership to be questioned. Shaken by her near-death experience, she spends some time away from the Railroad but eventually reunites with Deacon for a heartfelt conversation over coffee. Ultimately, the two are sent by Doctor Carrington to investigate one of the last remaining safehouses but come up short. Later, at her apartment, the two find themselves closer than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _It's a Man_ \- Betty Hutton

_“I can afford a blemish on my character, but not on my clothes.” –_ Shelby Carpenter as played by Vincent Price ( _Laura_ , 1944)

* * *

**February 17 th, 1958**

What occurred after the explosion was still a blur.

Deacon was quick to usher Madelyn off-site as the fire brigade and police descended upon the scene, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as he scurried them away from prying eyes. She was too shell-shocked to resist, even if she knew deep down it was too dangerous to linger behind and risk being cornered by an unknown enemy. _You can’t trust everyone—_ Deacon’s words echoed through her mind as they rushed down the Boston sidewalks to safety—but then, who could she trust?

Madelyn’s fear didn’t subside even as they hailed a cab from a quiet street corner close to Cambridge, noting the way her partner still clung to her side as he kept a careful watch on their surroundings. She felt safe there, tucked against his chest, but simultaneously the thought registered that being by his side was what got her into that mess in the first place. Instead of returning to her apartment, or to the Old North Church (any Railroad safehouse was a dangerous bet at the time), she instructed the driver to head to the Fens.

Deacon clasped her hand, gloved fingers tightening around her own as they watched the billowing smoke ascend into the night sky from the back-seat window. They turned to face each other, Madelyn regarding herself in the reflection of his shades before remembering for a brief moment she had seen what was underneath. But it was neither the time nor place to be swept up in emotions, daydreaming about having his baby-blues locked on her as they were whisked away from destruction. Instead, she looked away and allowed the familiar pangs of guilt to worm its way into her chest. 

It was nearly two in the morning by the time they reached the agency, and while the neon sign outside was turned off, she could see a few lights on inside indicating life. Sunday evening meant Jenny was working the overnight shift at the hospital, leaving Nick to his own devices and with nobody to tell him to go home. As Deacon helped her from the cab her suspicions were confirmed, spotting Nick’s black Cadillac parked along the curbside. Behind it was Piper’s red Beetle— _fantastic_. Madelyn didn’t feel like explaining herself, but the longer she idled with Deacon’s hand on the small of her back the more exhausted she became. With nowhere else to go, it was time to face the music.

The lobby was dark and momentarily, she thought she could sneak the two to her office on the other side of the room. Deacon caught on, the two quietly shuffling across the floorboards while eying the second, half-closed door with _Nick Valentine_ etched into the frosted glass pane. Soft, echoes of laughter spilled from the room, the sounds of clinking glasses and Nick grumbling about _something_. There was a different voice, one she couldn’t pin down—but it wasn’t important—she fumbled with her set of keys, desperately trying to remain quiet in her own place of employment like she didn’t have every right to be there.

“What the—oh, hey, Miss Lawyer.”

Madelyn froze, glancing over her shoulder to see somebody she didn’t expect to— _Robert MacCready_ —leaning in Nick’s doorway and opening it wider so more light spilled out to shine across her and her companion’s body. Deacon sidled closer behind her, either to slip further into the shadows or to force himself into her office—she couldn’t tell. MacCready’s eyebrows shot up a little when he realized she had a guest.

“Oh, so you came to have a lil’ fun with your friend?” he asked, clearly inebriated off of Nick’s private stash of too-good whiskey. The poor kid didn’t know what hit him, and really needed to stop talking. Despite the night she had had, she could feel her whole body burning and heard the softest smirk from Deacon behind her. MacCready gave the two an encouraging thumbs up. “That’s _awesome_.”

“ _What_?” Piper’s excited voice spilled out from the office.

Before Madelyn could think to hide Deacon somewhere— _anywhere_ (where the hell was she supposed to hide a six-foot-plus tall man in less than a second, anyway?)—her friend was standing in the lobby, flicking on the lights to expose them both. She snapped her eyes shut tightly, unprepared for the brightness and not realizing how sensitive they still were from the blast. She stumbled, but Deacon was ever the sturdy protector beside her, keeping her upright.

“Holy shit, Blue!” Piper announced, the shift in her tone worrisome. Madelyn peeked open her eyes to see the reporter staring at her agape, gaze shifting across her form. “What the hell happened to you?” Piper’s stare lingered where Deacon’s hands were still about her waist. “And who the hell are _you_?”

That’s when Madelyn realized her appearance was less than stellar—her coat was frayed, singed at the edges from the explosion and even though it was black, it did little to disguise the sprinkling of ash. Her stockings were ripped across the knees, and her heels were just as tattered, one buckle broken and missing. She needed a proper mirror but judging by what she could see in the reflection of her office door, her hair was a mess, golden-blonde curls awry. She quickly discarded a glove to touch at her forehead, realizing that there was a bruise, and on the corner of her lip, a small cut. She wondered if there were any other injuries she hadn’t discovered.

“Madelyn?”

Just as she was wiping away the blood from her face, Nick appeared in the doorway of his office, his confusion quickly shifting into one of concern as he noted the state she was in. Her remorse bloomed into full force—she hated to make Nick worry, and she’d been doing a lot of that lately with her newfound partnership with the Railroad. Rather suddenly she moved away from Deacon, noticing how reluctant he was to let her go. She rushed across the agency lobby and straight into Nick, wrapping her arms around his chest in a tight hug. Unable to fight back the tears that clouded her vision she buried her face into his shoulder, breathing in deep the familiar scent of cologne and cigarettes.

“Hey, doll,” Nick shushed her, clearly alarmed by her sudden show of emotions. She hadn’t cried—at least not in front of him—in a long time. One hand slid affectionately along her back as the other cradled her head. His voice was quiet as he mumbled against her temple. “What are you doing here so late? What _happened_?”

Madelyn didn’t know where to start—a secret mission for the Railroad to smuggle a witness to a crime out of the city that ended in a car-bomb blowing up half a building and left two people dead. At least she figured High Rise and Henry were dead—they had been so close to the explosion, to have survived would be a miracle. Their deaths weighed heavily on her shoulders and her knees practically buckled beneath her as another sob racked through her. 

Nick was quick to pull her into his office, depositing her into her favored armchair before his desk. He hunched down beside her, hands on either side of her head as he inspected her face. She and Nick had a close bond, but even this sort of contact was unusual for them—he hadn’t needed to comfort her so intensely since Nate’s murder. Madelyn tried to lean away but he didn’t let her, thumb softly brushing over the growing bump on her temple before smoothing her hair back into place. She flicked her gaze over the armchair to find MacCready and Piper in the doorway, effectively blocking Deacon from entering the room. However, being more than a head taller than them both, his displeasure was easy to see.

Nick noticed where she was looking and grumbled, leaning back on his haunches as he glanced over his shoulder. “ _Deacon_ ,” he seethed. “Mind telling me why the two of you have shown up in the dead of night, looking like _this_?”

Madelyn hadn’t heard that kind of vitriol from the detective directed at anyone but Eddie Winter. She shifted upright, reaching out to place a calming hand on her partner’s shoulder, but he was steadfast, focused on hearing the truth from the other man. MacCready and Piper both shifted, turning to stare at Deacon with similar, questionable expressions—though, Mac was considerably more amused by the situation, fueled by whatever booze they had been drinking before the two had shown up.

“Railroad business.”

Now was not the time for Deacon to be secretive or evasive with the organization’s going’s on, but he didn’t offer anything else, regarding Madelyn with a look that was too hard to read—why couldn’t he just be _honest_ —for once in their brief and complicated partnership? The short answer wasn’t what Nick _or_ Piper were looking for.

“ _Excuse_ me?” the reporter snapped, arms crossed. “ _The_ Railroad? You mean to tell me that you…” she poked a finger at his chest, prompting Deacon to glance down at her. Piper then gutted a thumb in Madelyn’s direction. “…and Blue are working for the Railroad?”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting up in a smallest of smirks. “We’re partners.”

Nick took full offense to that, standing up in a snap. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I don’t?” Deacon’s brows shot up, not expecting an argument. “That’s what we are, Nicky-boy.”

Madelyn furrowed her brow, looking over at him in alarmed confusion. Where was this animosity coming from? Nick shook his head, hand waving in disagreement.

“Some _partner_ you are, getting Madelyn into danger,” he bellowed. “If you can’t protect your partner, then you’re better off working alone!”

Deacon pushed his way past Piper and into the room. At first he didn’t say anything, mouth twitching like the detective’s words had stunned him into silence—it didn’t last. “How hypocritical, considering the kind of risks she’s facing working with you!” he retorted. “Corruption, gangsters, _murderers_? I bring her back here with a few scratches but what’s to say you won’t bring her back here in a casket?”

MacCready and Piper both rang out in a chorus of offended gasps. Nick bunched up his sleeves at his elbows and for a fleeting moment, Madelyn wondered what it would be like to see him smack some sense into Deacon. Reality caught up to her pounding head and she pushed herself out of the chair, wedging herself between the two men before they could scrap.

“There’s been enough bloodshed tonight,” she pleaded, the tremor in her voice making it unrecognizable. She pushed at their chests to further separate them, letting her hand linger against Deacon’s coat lapel. “For once Deacon, just _shut up_.”

He flinched back at her words, expression falling into one of remorse. Before he could cover her hand with his own, she had turned away to frown at Nick. “You should know more than anyone that I don’t need protecting,” she chastised. “I can handle myself, Nick. It doesn’t matter if I’m working with _you_ or with the _Railroad_ or if I’m on my own.”

In a huff she collapsed back into the armchair, reaching up to wipe at the last traces of her tears. From the doorway, MacCready swiftly moved towards Nick’s desk, swooping up a glass tumbler and filling it with a generous amount of whiskey before bringing it to Madelyn with a smile. She was appreciative of the gesture and even though it was—she wasn’t even sure of the time anymore—she took a deep drink. Piper entered the room again, glaring at Deacon as she passed by him to sit in the opposite armchair.

“There was an explosion,” she whispered, finally offering some kind of explanation. She pressed the cold glass to her temple to soothe the headache that had only increased since the bombing.

Nick leaned against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms as he looked to Deacon for confirmation. The detective seemed to be barely containing his anger at the revelation. The Railroad agent gave a little nod. “We were escorting a… _friend_.”

Madelyn shook her head, sighing as she remembered everything Henry had reluctantly told her in the Cambridge church. “Nick, we were helping a witness to Johnny Montrano’s murder.”

The detective went slack with shock before blindly reaching back for his pack of smokes. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What does that have to do with the Railroad?” Piper asked, her question directed at Deacon rather than Madelyn. “Do you know how long I’ve been chasing down the rumor that _you_ are behind the disappearances and murders around town?” 

“Likely just as long as we’ve been investigating them,” Deacon replied. “We’ve had our own share of setbacks.”

Madelyn knew that and had divulged some of those obstacles to Nick but Piper and MacCready were in the dark. She didn’t want to reveal too much and compromise an entire operation, even if the Railroad was hardly working at maximum efficiency. 

“We were helping him get out of the city, he said he was afraid for his life,” she explained.

“Was he being threatened by Eddie Winter?” Nick mumbled around his cigarette, his irritation had returned. “Is that why you were targeted? Who else knew you were on the move tonight?”

Deacon was quick to argue, shaking his head. “Eddie Winter is a coincidence. There’s a safehouse with a giant, smoldering hole in it that screams this was an attack against the Railroad.”

“Ever stop to think that it could be both?” Piper quipped, cooling them off before the two men could get into another dispute. “We’ve sniffed out enough corruption in this town that somebody could’ve been hired to knock out two birds with one stone and send us on a wild goose chase trying to figure out the truth.”

Madelyn considered the reporter’s words, knowing what she proposed made a lot of sense. Still, a valuable asset in the agency’s investigation of Eddie Winter had been lost—she flicked her gaze to Deacon, who was pensive—she couldn’t possibly imagine the kind of loss he was processing. First the Switchboard and now Ticonderoga—he had barely survived both—and had saved her life in the process of surviving the second. She kept her eyes on him, the ache in her chest almost too painful to bear. Death and destruction seemed to follow him like he was cursed—maybe she had the right idea to stay away the first time, maybe it was telling she had never properly organized him on her Railroad _pros_ and _cons_ list. If she ran away from the Railroad, from being his partner again, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to return—regardless of how she might felt for him.

“I’m sorry Nick,” she sighed, looking back to the detective. “I would’ve liked for the witness to help us. He was our last best lead to go after Winter.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” MacCready chimed in, leaning over the back of the armchair. He had been fairly quiet during the entire exchange but was now fully invested and had apparently sobered up. He looked between Piper and Nick before focusing on Madelyn again. “I know you’ve been looking for these handwritten notes signed by Winter himself but what if I told you there’s voice recordings?”

Having an informant was starting to pay off—if the information was accurate. Nick looked at him skeptically. “Where’d you hear this?”

“Pays to spend most of your time in a dive-bar,” the former mercenary laughed. “Off duty cops and the like are always spreading secrets through loose lips.”

Nick and Madelyn locked eyes, but she had already heard enough. It was well enough that they could pretend this was good news, but she was still trying to process the night’s events. She blamed having her brain rattled around on why she ever thought it was a good idea to come to the agency in the first place, looking at the group of people around her. If what MacCready was saying was true, she could hear about it later, after she had time to recover. As he and Piper idly chatted about the details of his eavesdropping, Deacon inched closer to where she was sitting and carefully, subtly offered his hand. She frowned, giving a little shake of her head. The guilt was overwhelming, but she couldn’t—not now.

Instead, she looked to Nick who had observed the entire exchange. Surprisingly, his expression had softened, remembering that Madelyn had once expressed to him that she could potentially hold feelings for the man standing next to her. If the circumstances were different—if the two had returned to her apartment maybe—she would’ve let him comfort her and do more than just hold her hand. She didn’t dwell on the _what if_.

“Nick,” she barely called for him. “Can you take me home?”

“Sure, doll. Sure,” he answered, not missing a beat as he stubbed out his smoke. As he shrugged on his trench coat and fitted his hat atop his head, he regarded Piper. “Think you can lock up?”

“Yeah,” she replied, glowering at the Railroad agent again. “As soon as I take out the trash.”

“ _Piper_ ,” Madelyn warned, standing to make her exit with Nick. Beside her, Deacon tensed, and she flashed him one last lingering look. “I’ll see you later, Deacon.”

He didn’t sound so convinced, his solemn tone nearly tearing her apart. “Be seeing you, Charmer.”  
  


* * *

**  
March 4 th, 1958**

Avoiding the Railroad was a lot easier the second time around.

Madelyn wondered as the days and weeks passed if it was because she had come so close to death and they were allowing her the space, or they had their own mess to clean up and couldn’t be bothered. Either way, they didn’t try to contact her. Other than Drummer Boy passing a note that High Rise and Henry were confirmed as deceased, her neighbor— _agent_ —kept his distance, politely smiling when their paths crossed in the apartment hallway. There were no updates, no dead drops and no secret messages from her _partner_.

She hadn’t intended to shut Deacon out again, but this time she had plenty of more reasons to be anxious of him and the organization he worked for. It wasn’t confusion over guilt-ridden emotions she was running from, but rather genuine fear that kept her away. While the point had been made that she wasn’t any better off working as Nick’s legal assistant, in the two years she had been at the agency, she had never suffered a mild concussion—let alone survive a car-bomb. It had only taken a few weeks of knowing Deacon for her to come so close to death and it unnerved her. Despite it all, a small part of her missed him—missed their strange connection—and she had spent more than a few nights foolishly wondering what could’ve been.

In his absence, she backslid to sulking about, putting on a front for Nick and Piper at the agency as they worked the Eddie Winter case files, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered when her friends could tell she was faking most of her cheerfulness. With all that was occurring, she wasn’t sure what the point of it all was anymore. Codsworth also noted her shift in mood, the poor robot-butler doing everything he could to cheer her up with elaborate meals and bad jokes, going as far as to deep clean the entire apartment just so she wouldn’t have to lift a finger when she returned home from work. Madelyn stuck to her routines—day-in and day-out, hoping that one morning she would wake up and feel normal, or at least as normal as she had been before New Year’s Eve.

On a day off, she woke to find Codsworth cooking up another too-big breakfast while Dogmeat happily barked, knowing it was highly probable he was to get the extra bacon she didn’t eat. Before she could sit down on one of the empty barstools, she noticed the bouquet of flowers sitting in the middle of the small kitchen island, already in a vase and water.

“Codsworth, honey,” she carefully reached out to touch the delicate petals— _daisies and forget-me-nots_ —her heart was racing. “Where did these come from?”

“It was the strangest occurrence, mum,” the robot answered, one eye looking back at her as he continued his tasks. “There was a knock at the door just before you woke up but when I answered, there was nobody in the hallway. Just these flowers.”

Madelyn inspected the flora, knowing exactly where and _who_ they had come from. She was caught off guard by how disappointed she was that Deacon hadn’t at least _tried_ to charm his way into her apartment like last time. “No note?”

“I’m afraid not, Miss Madelyn.”

Suddenly, her own home felt stuffy, and it wasn’t because of the toast Codsworth had managed to burn— _again_. Madelyn excused herself from the counter and back to her bedroom where she quickly dressed, offering the Mister Handy a speedy apology as she made her exit from the apartment. Maybe if she was fast enough, she could catch up to him before he got too far. She passed Drummer Boy on the way down the many flights of stairs, pausing in her rushed steps to question him. 

“Deacon was just here, wasn’t he?”

The Railroad agent shrugged, but his little smile gave him away. Madelyn didn’t bother to linger, continuing to hurry down the stairwell. Drummer Boy shouted from behind her. “Tell him I was right! He owes me two dollars!”

On the street, she looked down both directions of the sidewalk for a suspiciously tall man in sunglasses. She thought it would be easier to pin him down, but for all she knew he could’ve been disguised as the _postman_. A few minutes passed and she nearly resigned herself to go back inside, feeling rather silly for her rash decision to come outside in the first place—they were just flowers—it didn’t mean anything. That’s when she saw Deacon standing on the street corner, purchasing a newspaper from the local kiosk before continuing on. Madelyn hurried down the sidewalk to match his stride, and nearly reached out to grab at his arm before stopping herself short.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she huffed out the question, out of breath from chasing him down.

Deacon stopped to look down at her, the surprise quickly molding into one of amusement as he regarded her appearance. In her rush to get out of her apartment, she hadn’t bothered to button her coat, and only then did she notice that she was wearing mismatched shoes. She did well to hide her embarrassment, crossing her arms like she dressed this way all the time. He looked just about the same from the last time she saw him, with a dark coat over his casual attire—like a man on his way to work.

“Slocum’s Joe,” he answered with a smile. “For my morning coffee. Care to join, Charmer?”

Madelyn was taken aback by how relaxed he seemed, considering their last interaction. Instead of reading into it, she nodded, pleased to have heard her Railroad callsign once more. It didn’t sound right coming from anyone but him. Deacon led them around the block to the Cambridge coffee house, the two walking in a strange kind of silence that persisted as they took their seats in one of the tiny, vinyl blue booths. He ordered for her—because of course he remembered her coffee order—and then just stared in her direction. Well, she could only assume so—too much hidden behind those glasses of his.

“You got the flowers?” he asked.

“Yes,” Madelyn answered, tilting her head to the side. The moment felt far too serious. “Well, Codsworth did. He thinks they’re lovely.”

“Good,” Deacon smirked. “A robot deserves something nice now and again.”

The waitress delivered their drinks and Madelyn watched as he inspected his as always before taking a careful taste. She wondered if there was ever a time when he wasn’t paranoid, or if he ever let his guard down. He was a master at pretending to be cool, calm and relaxed—but it was all a façade—something she was very familiar with. Two peas in a pod, they were. As she sipped at her coffee, she thought about her neighbor.

“You owe Drummer Boy money?”

He softly chuckled. “He bet that you would want to see me, and that I should’ve pressed my luck by sticking around this morning.”

“He was right,” she answered, hiding her smile behind another drink. The warmth of her coffee disguised the flush to her face—she wasn’t sure why she had decided to be so forward. “You shouldn’t make a bet against the man who has been observing my behaviors for the last four months.”

Deacon laughed harder, nodding in agreement. “Either way, I’m just glad to hear you don’t hate my guts.”

“You assume too much,” she teased. “Maybe I wanted to see you so I could stick Codsworth on you.”

“Charmer,” he said the name solemnly, harkening back to that last night in the agency. “This isn’t easy, but you deserve an apology. For getting mixed up in our mess. Your ol’ detective was right, about a lot of things. Namely, how piss-poor of a job I did at protecting you.”

She disagreed. “I’d say saving me from an explosion is better than _piss-poor_.”

Deacon grumbled. “Point being you should not have been anywhere near the explosion in the first place.”

“I said it before and I’ll say it again,” Madelyn protested. “I can take care of myself. While it’s comforting to know that you and Nick are so worried, it’s also incredibly frustrating that you don’t have faith in my capabilities. Wasn’t that why I was recruited to the Railroad in the first place?”

He floundered, filling the silence with a big gulp of coffee. “You got me there.”

Madelyn glanced to the newspaper on the table beside their cups and noticed an article that detailed the investigation into the car-bombing that destroyed the Cambridge street corner was at a standstill—as expected. With a frown, she contemplated the amount of devastation she had faced over the years.

“There’s been so much death,” she started with a whisper. “ _I’ve_ seen so much death. I know you have too.” She wasn’t blind to that, wasn’t ignorant. Deacon remained silent, watching her carefully. “Working with Nick and investigating the murders, the disappearances, we’ve seen so much.”

Madelyn glanced down to her wedding ring and fiddled with the band. “I told you I was widowed.”

“He was murdered in Boston Common, two Christmases ago,” she admitted in a shaky breath. “A complete stranger came up to us and held us at gun point and then…shot him. Nate died in the street—in my arms—before help could arrive.”

“Shit, Charmer, I—” Deacon’s mouth skewed aside as he fumbled over the right words to say. “Did they ever catch the son-of-a-bitch?”

She shook her head, gasping back her tears. “No. Nick and I have…” she wavered, unsure why she was divulging information that she typically kept locked up tight. Madelyn found her resolve. “Just know that whatever happens, it can’t get much worse than what I’ve already experienced.”

He nodded and looked as though he was going to say something but changed his mind at the last second. Instead, he finished off his coffee, glancing down at the porcelain bottom. “Understandable why you’d be skeptical of our organization, though.”

“You said it yourself, _you can’t trust everyone_ ,” she spoke, voice going soft. His head perked up at that, not expecting her to use the phrase back at him. “I want to know that I can at least trust you.”

Deacon was quiet for a long time.

“My relationship with the truth rubs some people the wrong way,” he admitted with a smirk before it dissolved right off his face. “Charmer, I want—”

Madelyn’s heart strained in her chest at his hesitation, and the tension in his voice. If she were to even begin to think about rejoining the Railroad— _again_ —she needed to know her faith, and feelings, weren’t misguided. 

“If you believe anything, believe this,” Deacon continued, slowly reaching over to place his hand over hers. She welcomed the touch, smiling as she flipped her palm up to cup his fingers. “I’m in your corner. Always have been.”  
  


* * *

**  
March 7 th, 1958 **

Stanley Carrington was not what Madelyn expected when she was first introduced to the doctor in the catacombs beneath the Old North Church. Apparently, the Railroad physician wasn’t overly impressed by _Charmer_ —questioning her routine absences, regardless of how much Desdemona and Deacon talked her up.

“I still can’t believe Dez recruited you,” he groused, face in a permanent scowl.

“So, you must be head of the unwelcoming committee,” Madelyn jested, earning a chuckle from Deacon.

Carrington glared at them both. “I can see why they call you Charmer.”

“I don’t mean to get off on the wrong foot, Doctor,” she corrected with a smile. “I hope you’ll look past the risk of me being here.”

“We’ll see,” he replied quietly before sighing. “I understand you helped Deacon retrieve intel from the Switchboard. An extraordinary feat. Hardly the point.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure if there was a compliment buried in his sentence, but she continued to grin, hoping her expression would placate him in some way. She flashed her partner a knowing look. “What will it take for you to trust me?”

Carrington barked a sharp laugh, but considered her question, rubbing a few fingers at his chin. “With the Switchboard and Ticonderoga offline, we need to confirm if any of our other safehouses are operational. If you could look into the current status of Augusta Safehouse—so far, we haven’t made any contact with our agents there.”

Madelyn looked to Deacon who gave the doctor a simple nod in agreeance. “Blackbird and crew moved around a lot, last time I checked, they were holed up in some office building.”

“I’ll have Drummer Boy coordinate the dead drops once we confirm their last known location,” the doctor replied. He focused his attention back on Madelyn. “Have a care, Agent Charmer. Odds are very good you’re walking into something nasty.”  
  


* * *

_  
Augusta is still dark. Location enclosed. Exercise extreme caution._

Deacon and Madelyn picked up the note from a mailbox near Bunker Hill, only to be led back to an old abandoned medical building in Cambridge. The attached hospital was in decline, losing more and more patients to the nearby New England Medical Center, making the area practically deserted, especially for that time of night. And to think she lived not just a few blocks away.

“There’s the railsign,” Deacon mentioned, gesturing to the small etching on the brick wall by the door. To the unassuming, it looked like an unusual piece of graffiti, but to them, it was the marking of a Railroad safehouse. He frowned, motioning to a second, albeit hard to read drawing. “That looks like an _x_.”

“Danger?” Madelyn asked in a whisper.

He shrugged, moving past her so he could head through the entrance first. She was brought back to the night in which her and Nick had cornered Doctor Crocker in the Fens apartments and swiftly withdrew her pistol, keeping her aim low. While she didn’t anticipate any homicidal doctors jumping out at them, she wanted to be prepared for any possible threat. Deacon walked ahead in the dim lighting, leading the two through a lobby and down a hallway before stopping abruptly.

Something sticky was on their shoes.

She blinked down, hard to see in the dark, but she knew. “Is that blood?”

His next steps were measured, avoiding the stains on the tile flooring as he peered into the open room where the trail led. Without much thought, Madelyn went to follow and nearly toppled into his back as he stood frozen in the doorway, just looking within.

“Shit,” he breathed, hand coming up to cover his mouth.

Quickly he turned to her, trying to shield her eyes in a hug but it was far too late for that—she had seen everything—the bodies stacked in a bloody pile, each with their own gunshot. Judging by blood and the smell, they had been there for a few days. A few cans of gasoline were littered about, but if arson was the end goal, the perpetrators had clearly decided against the action last minute or had been spooked. With the building being abandoned, it wasn’t any wonder the crime scene had gone undiscovered. She leaned away from him, taking careful note of the way his hands trembled—more Railroad agents dead—another safehouse lost.

“Deacon, we have to get out of here,” she urged, glancing down to ensure their feet weren’t tracking anymore of the blood-residue. She didn’t have a lot of faith in the Boston Police Department’s evidence collection techniques but didn’t want to give detectives a reason to come looking for them. “We can call it in.”

“Right,” he replied with a firm nod.

When he didn’t budge, she tugged on his arm, encouraging him to follow. They retraced their steps out the front door, Madelyn only pausing to tuck her weapon back into her purse. As inconspicuous as it was to walk calmly along the sidewalk, elbows linked, she felt like drowning in the adrenaline coursing through her veins. This wasn’t like the Switchboard—certainly not as awful as Ticonderoga—but to walk away from the scene like she hadn’t just been there was a hard pill to swallow. That was the reality of working for the Railroad, she supposed—if they stayed, the Boston police would have questions neither of them would be able to answer. Deacon was a great storyteller, a genius at crafting a lie any schmuck could believe but even Madelyn had a hard time thinking he’d be able to get them out of that big of a mess. It wouldn’t matter how many lawyers she knew at the District Attorney’s office either—a pile of dead bodies in a storage closet could very well be easily pinned on her and Deacon by a bunch of likely corrupt cops. She called Nick from the payphone outside her apartment building, who was disheartened to hear the news but promptly took the information, promising to alert the authorities in a way that it couldn’t be traced to either the agency or the Railroad.

The elevator was out again, prompting the two to climb the stairwell to the seventh floor. As Madelyn struggled to unlock the door to her apartment, she was thankful that Drummer Boy wasn’t lurking, waiting for some kind of update. Inside, she deposited her keys in the small dish, already working on the buttons of her coat so she could toss it over the back of the couch. Codsworth and Dogmeat were nowhere to be found and with a quick glance to her watch she figured the dog had likely whined his way into a late evening stroll.

Madelyn turned on the small lamp in the living room, circling around the tiny space so she could collapse onto her sofa, uncaring about how undignified she looked. Considering how much walking they had just done—from Cambridge to Bunker Hill and back again—her feet were aching. She reached to grab at the buckles of her shoes, but Deacon had followed close behind, already kneeling down on the ground before her knees to assist. His fingers made quick work of the straps around her ankles, slipping off each blue-hued heel before delicately maneuvering, carefully massaging the arches of her stocking-wrapped feet.

“All that running around and nothing to show for it except sore feet,” he teased in a soft voice, as if they hadn’t just stumbled across the scene of his fellow murdered Railroad agents. Master of deflection, he was—bury the pain deep. She was in no position to judge, feeling the sympathy wash through her—it was no way to live.

She watched him, overwhelmed by the gesture—it was too intimate, too domestic and yet so exactly in character for him that she didn’t pull away. Instead she shifted, thinking that at the angle they were positioned in, she might be able to get a peek at his eyes again. Even when the nightmares from the explosion plagued her sleep, Madelyn was calmed by the memory of cool blue eyes hovering over her—if only for a split second. She didn’t want to call herself desperate, but all she wanted was to see them again.

“I can stop if you want me to,” he said, permeating her thoughts.

Madelyn shook her head, a surprising warmth finding root in her chest. “It’s…nice.”

“I can settle for that,” he laughed, swapping for her other foot.

“This isn’t about you having a foot fetish, is it?” she joked, trying to keep the mood light. If that’s what he needed after what they had experienced that evening, then she could deliver.

“What if it is?”

Madelyn smiled, finding herself a little too exhausted to participate in a battle of wits with him. Better to just lean back and enjoy whatever moment they were sharing. Deacon continued his ministrations, but she noticed that his chin was angled upwards so that he was clearly looking at her from behind his shades. Whatever compelled her to lean forward, she couldn’t say. She wasn’t even aware she had gotten any closer to him until she was reaching out with one hand towards his face, watching his brows knit together in bewilderment before his expression softened in realization. Her fingers brushed against the corner of the darkened frames, causing him to edge closer, his hands sliding up her ankle to her calf.

“Deacon, can you take these off?” she asked, perhaps too quietly.

His lips quipped up in a smirk. “My glasses, or your stockings?”

All of her breath escaped her in one stunned huff, and the heat in her chest spread across her entire body. Her toes curled in his grasp and the way his eyebrow perked let her know he had noticed. She hadn’t been spoken to— _flirted with_ —like that in ages. Her mind was a haze of thoughts and emotions—confusion, anticipation and _want_. Somewhere deeper was the lingering guilt, and the constant battle she always faced, wondering if she deserved a moment of happiness, even if it didn’t seem completely sensible. She wasn’t even sure if she was reading the scene correctly—where was this leading?

Before Madelyn could lean forward and find out, the front door opened, freezing her still. 

“Oh! Miss Madelyn, you’re home!” Codsworth greeted, promptly closing the door behind him. Dogmeat barked happily as he rounded the room to sniff at the bodies on the couch. “And I see the milkman has decided to join us once again! How delightful!”

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” Madelyn sighed, flicking her gaze to the ceiling.

Deacon softly chuckled, his breath fanning across her cheek as he gradually pulled away. “Adorable.”

“Might I get you anything mum?” Codsworth hovered behind the couch, completely incapable of realizing he had ruined a moment. Madelyn wasn’t sure what _kind_ of moment—but it was lost. She slumped against the back of the couch, pressing her hand across her face in embarrassment.

“No thank you, dear,” she mumbled.

The robot whirred. “Sir, would you like anything?”

“ _Sir_ , did you hear that?” Deacon laughed to himself and she peeked out from under her fingers to find him shifting to stand. “No thank you, Codsworth darling. I should be seeing myself out. Wouldn’t want to impose. What would the neighbors think, a strange man occupying a lovely, young woman’s apartment at strange hours of the night?”

Madelyn kicked her foot against his shin playfully. “You’re overdoing it.”

“Me?” he motioned to himself. “Sweetheart, you don’t know a thing about _Deacon_ and _overdoing_.”

She rolled her eyes, extending her arm so he’d help hoist her off the couch. His hand squeezed against her wrist, thumb passing along the skin there before withdrawing. This time, he meant every word he spoke. “Be seeing you, Charmer.”

Madelyn watched him as he departed, staring at the closed apartment door as her heart continued to race. “I’ll see you later, Deacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went through a re-write and in the original draft, Deacon and Nick did not have such an intense argument. But I wanted the tension and there it is. 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	8. Romantic as a Pair of Handcuffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been a busy month for the Valentine Detective Agency—Madelyn, Nick and Piper regroup to go over all the evidence in the case against Eddie Winter. Marty Bulfinch arrives with a lead and an invitation to an event perfect for “Charmer” and Deacon. After having her partnership with the Railroad spy questioned a second time by Piper, Madelyn confides in the most unlikely of people. Later, at the Third Rail, it’s showtime for two undercover agents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Money (That’s What I Want)_ – Barrett Strong   
> _Fever_ – Peggy Lee🎵

_“Well, you’re about as romantic as a pair of handcuffs.” -_ Debby Marsh as played by Gloria Grahame ( _The Big Heat_ , 1953)

* * *

**April 8 th, 1958 **

The first signs of spring arrived in Boston not a moment too soon, alleviating the city from a harsh winter—weather wise, at least. Piper couldn’t resist using the change in seasons as a clever headline for the latest edition of _Publick Occurrences_ — “ _Winter is over, but Eddie Winter isn’t.”_ It had been a busy month for the mob boss, who had all but taken control of all the major crime families in the city. With the exception of a few holdouts, his men had wormed their way across the criminal underground and begun to infiltrate once reputable businesses. Nowhere in Boston was safe.

Madelyn had kept herself just as occupied, juggling her work with the agency and the Railroad. Most days she would investigate leads with Nick, tracking down the necessary proof to pin Winter for his crimes. In her spare time she was partnered up with Deacon, fielding the work from Desdemona or Doctor Carrington, and the few odd job from Tinker Tom (maybe odd was putting it lightly). The two had caught a break and made contact with a surviving safehouse— _Randolph_ —and worked to bring them back into the fold, strengthening the organization numbers. It was still slow going as the data from the Switchboard was decrypted, but she was glad to have given the group—and Deacon—a second chance.

Meanwhile, the agency had been successful in collecting the evidence that had been disappearing from police custody through their own unscrupulous means—but if there was sabotage within the precincts, their options were extremely limited. MacCready’s lead on recordings had so far been a dead end, as promising as it sounded. Nick had followed up on the rumor with his old friend Marty Bulfinch at Precinct 8 but finding physical proof of Eddie Winter’s crimes was like trying to capture lightning in a bottle. Winter’s corruption had spread through the entire government—from law enforcement to the mayor’s office—with anyone from beat cops to prosecutors offered bribes. Nobody could be trusted.

Madelyn was carefully inspecting the handwriting of a newly obtained letter, comparing the messy scrawl to the copies on hand, trying to determine if the note MacCready snatched off a drunken police detective belonged to their set. She read over the lines of text again, wishing that more than a few words in a sentence were intelligible. The most she could make out were the words _sir, head_ , and _artist_. Whatever that meant. At least she could say the scribbles belonged to the same hand who wrote the other letters. Even though none had been signed, there was enough inference to say Eddie Winter had penned them all.

“He’s done it again!”

A _Boston Bugle_ newspaper slammed down right atop of Madelyn’s work, causing her to snap up in alarm. Nick was fuming, pacing in front of her desk as a waft of cigarette smoke trailed behind his head like a halo. This wasn’t a surprising mood to find him in as of late—as they ramped up their investigation, the detective had become more stressed than ever, bordering on manic—relentless in his endeavor to stop Eddie Winter’s takeover of Boston. Late nights in the office had left his jaw shadowed, in need of a shave, and his light green eyes were dull with sleep deprivation. 

Madelyn glanced down to read over the newspaper print, frowning when she saw the bolded typeface— _Boston mob leader Ron Trevio found dead_. Nick paused in his footsteps and approached, reaching down to tap his finger against the article in question.

“What they don’t say is that Winter had him assassinated,” he muttered, reaching up to grab at the nearly burnt out cigarette. Madelyn scooted the ashtray she kept in her office specifically for him closer so he could snuff the smoke out. “Whoever he got to do the job blew his head clean right off, destroying the bullet in the process.”

She grimaced at the thought, swallowing down the sickly feeling that crept up her throat. Not that she doubted Nick, but she questioned what made him so confident. Trevio was a mid-level player on the mob-scene but had stayed out of Winter’s way—rumor was that he was even making plans to head east to New York. For him to wind up dead and deposed of in such a gruesome way seemed unbefitting of even Eddie Winter.

“Are you sure?” Madelyn asked, watching as Nick ran a hand through his dark hair, distraught. “We both know he’s unhinged but this…this seems brazen.”

Her partner gestured to the newspaper again. “He knows he can get away with it. He has this entire city in his palm, and this is a warning to anyone who dares to go against him.”

She considered his words, wondering if he had thought about what Eddie Winter would do if he knew about the depth of their investigation. It was likely no secret to the crime-family organization that the Valentine Detective Agency was after them, but Nick had always been considered a joke to the city—something that used to bring him shame, he was now using to his advantage to keep their work under wraps. Still, Madelyn was on edge. If Winter and his men knew how much they had discovered, how close they were to finding a smoking gun, her and Nick were as sure as dead.

“Hey doll,” her partner called her from her thoughts, and she flicked her gaze up to meet his eyes. “You alright?”

This was what she signed up for, wasn’t it? When she first came to the agency all those years ago, he didn’t just need a legal assistant, but somebody who would help him in the pursuit of justice. After Nate’s death, she wound up relying on him for similar reasons. Nick was more than her partner, but her friend and somebody she trusted with her life. She was more than ready to see the Eddie Winter case to the very end with him, even if it killed her.

She put forth a smile. “I’m fine, it’s nothing.”

Before Nick could protest, quick footsteps echoed though the lobby and the two could hear Ellie correcting their guest to the right office. 

“Oh so we’re in here for a change,” Piper joked sarcastically, taking a second glance at Madelyn’s name on the door before entering. She had a copy of the _Boston Bugle_ and her own newspaper tucked under her arm, her bright red coat thrown over the other. As she threw herself into one of the cushioned armchairs, she let out a large sigh. “You saw the news?”

“Yes,” Nick and Madelyn answered simultaneously.

Piper regarded them both, grumbling under her breath. She tossed the papers haphazardly towards the desk, and Madelyn had to fumble to catch the copy of _Publick Occurrences_. The front page lacked any information on the Trevio murder, instead focusing on Mayor McDonough and his finances— _sources were able to track donations to the McDonough_ _reelection campaign back to the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—_

“This wasn’t the first time a murder has occurred and we’re the last to hear about it,” she sneered, interrupting Madelyn’s reading. “Talk about a media cover-up. Police corruption is one thing, but now Winter is messing with the freedom of the press!”

Nick choked over a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of _course_ they’d have a mole at the Bugle. Control the flow of information to the public. Spread fear through lies.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Madelyn warned, reading over her friend’s newspaper again.

Ever since the agency had begun collecting hard evidence against Eddie Winter, Piper had been itching to blow the whistle, promising to site the two as anonymous sources. As convincing as she made it sound, and as safe as her previous unidentified informants remained, Nick vehemently denied her request. The agency and _Publick Occurrences_ were cut from the same cloth, and it wasn’t because they shared the same building. If Piper shared any information, she’d be painting a target on her back too.

“I know Blue, I know,” she relented, looking more defeated than before. “We’re _so_ close.”

Nick nodded, pulling a new cigarette from the pack in the breast pocket of his shirt. “We are,” he nodded towards Madelyn as he flicked at his lighter. “Let’s go over the list again.”

She shuffled through the small pile on her desk until she found her steno notebook, lined with the details of the case. With a pen, she started at the top, suppressing the memories the name conjured. “Johnny Montrano, Jr.”

Nick and Piper nodded in agreement that they could still find a way to pin Montrano’s murder on Winter, even without a witness. Based on the information she had learned from Henry, the casefile and street rumors, they could corroborate that Eddie’s old hitman Robert Cooper had been hired for the job.

“Mac said Winter’s boys have been trying to keep that one quiet from Johnny’s pop,” Piper quipped. “Maybe he’s afraid of somebody after all.”

Madelyn shrugged, continuing down the list. “Arlington Green three,” she paused. The bodies had been discovered in the sand-trap just before Thanksgiving while Eddie Winter was still incarcerated at Cedar Junction. “Doesn’t Boston P.D. want to pin this on one of the O’Malley brothers?”

“Doesn’t mean the order wasn’t given down the chain of command,” Nick said, tapping his smoke over the ashtray. “Did they ever identify the victims?”

She solemnly shook her head. “The theory is they were low-level members of the Irish crime families.”

“They also could’ve been innocent bystanders for all we know,” Piper argued. She waved her hand, encouraging Madelyn to read on.

“Arthur Black,” she spoke. “Murdered a waiter in Winter’s presence. His girlfriend was there too.”

“Claire Pozinski, what a piece of work,” Nick scoffed. “What she sees in him—”

“Money, probably,” Piper interjected. “That, or she’s got a few screws lose in the head.”

“That’s besides the point,” Madelyn brought them to attention, dragging her unclicked pen down the paper. “Black was found dead, multiple stab wounds outside one of Winter’s clubs.”

“He was a liability. Leaving him out in the open was a warning to the others,” Nick reminded, harkening her back to their earlier conversation.

She nodded, blood running cold at the next item. “Danvers.”

None of them said a word, silently nodding in agreement. Just over Christmas, right after Eddie Winter had been released from prison, there had been a shooting in a speakeasy in the small town north of Boston. Two rival gangs had encroached on neutral territory and it didn’t take long for guns to go blazing. When the dust settled, each side had their fair share of casualties, but civilians had also perished. The prevailing rumor was that Winter had sparked the confrontation, sending his men to provoke the fight. Police had closed the investigation with all responsible parties arrested, even if their leaders still walked the streets.

“Alice Lansky,” Madelyn voiced after a moment of silence. “The missing safety inspector that was found…” she shook her head, unable to form the words. The poor woman had been stuffed into a barrel, remained dissolved in hydrochloric acid. Out of all of the victims linked back to Eddie Winter’s crime family, her death had been the most grotesque. 

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around why they needed to off a safety inspector,” Nick mused, rubbing at the stubble along his jaw. “How does she fit into this?”

“Maybe she stumbled across something she wasn’t meant to see,” Piper suggested, lips falling into a straight line the moment she said the words. As if Madelyn hadn’t already been worried about meeting an untimely end at the hands of Winter’s men, now she was imagining being crammed into a metal barrel, never to be discovered again. She did her best to hide the shiver that ran down her spine.

“Other than the numerous unexplained disappearances, robberies and drug running that have been occurring,” Madelyn sighed as she leaned back in her chair. “That’s what we have so far.”

“I know we’ve been over this before but,” Piper started. “Are you sure there isn’t anybody you trust within Boston P.D. with this information? Other than Marty, that is.”

Nick smiled, shaking his head. “You must think I’m real thick if you believe I trust that snake in a blue suit, Piper.”

The reporter laughed along with him, though Madelyn held back her amusement as she noticed Ellie leading a guest towards the open office door. She straightened in her seat. “Speak of the devil.”

Marty Bulfinch stood in the doorway with a sly grin, hands poised midair as he surveyed the room. He looked disheveled as always—even the expensive, navy pinstriped suit he wore didn’t do much to hide his less-desirable features. “Nicky, you talking trash in here?”

“You can’t walk around Boston with ducks on your ties and expect people not to say something, Marty,” Nick joked, deflecting what they had been actually been speaking about masterfully.

The other man rubbed at his necktie self-consciously. “Hey now, the other guys think its hilarious.”

Madelyn grimaced, wondering when, or how Nick would’ve ever been friends with such a slimeball. Even if her partner kept him on a short leash, she had her doubts about having the police detective as an informant—it was too risky, for all parties involved.

“What brings you here, Mr. Bulfinch?” she finally questioned, motioning for him to sit in the other armchair. Madelyn knew that her politeness always seemed to unnerve him and fairly quickly his expression shifted, eyes fixating on her as he moved from the doorway to the empty seat. He looked like a nervous child, come to the principal’s office for a punishment—that is, until he flicked his gaze back to Nick.

“You know those recordings you’ve been asking about?” he said, hand disappearing into his jacket pocket before revealing a holotape—technology only used by police, the government and a few lucky hospitals—the others in the office were taken aback by its appearance. “Now, I couldn’t well smuggle a holotape reader out of the office, but, I have it on good authority that this tape has Winter’s voice on it. With some self-incriminating information.”

“You don’t know what it says?” Piper asked directly. “Is there a transcript?”

Marty glared at her, tired eyes unblinking. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he slowly handed it over to Nick, who carefully inspected the foreign piece of data in his palm before passing it over to Madelyn. Marty shifted in his seat. “You’ll have to find your own way to listen to it.”

She had her own ideas, thinking about all of the various gadgets and inventions Tinker Tom had built and tucked away beneath the Old North Church. Of course, she wasn’t about to make the suggestion in front of their guest—for all he knew, the Railroad was a fairytale.

“I also have a lead on where ol’ Eddie might strike next,” Marty continued, fidgeting with his tie again. “Tensions between Winter and Skinny Malone have reached a fever pitch and he’s ready to have him offed.”

“That frosty, huh?” Piper chimed in, eyeing the rest of the room’s occupants. “Last we heard, Winter was allowing Skinny and his Triggermen to operate the speakeasies downtown, as long as they got a cut.”

“Skinny Malone doesn’t want to share anymore,” Marty explained, flatly. “And that made Eddie flip his lid.”

“Any idea on when the hit is supposed to take place?” Nick asked, extinguishing his cigarette. He leaned against the front of the desk, staring his former partner down. “The whole scene has been brimming with activity lately, it could be any day now.”

Marty nodded in agreement. “Skinny Malone is throwing a bash at his joint this Friday to celebrate his broad’s birthday,” he tilted his head side-to-side. “Ya’ know, the _Third Rail_? It’s been pulling in customers from Scollay Square ever since it opened.”

“That has Eddie Winter written all over it,” Piper remarked, leaning forward eagerly. “There’s no way he’ll make an appearance himself, though, right?”

“I doubt it,” Nick grumbled, considering the information. “Is Boston P.D. working on this? Are they going put Skinny Malone into protective services?”

Marty shrugged. “A few of us are being sent to the Third Rail undercover just in case we have to intercept,” he explained. “That’s when the offer will be made. We don’t expect Malone to come in quietly unless he feels his life is truly in danger.”

“Speaking of,” the investigator spoke, pointing to Nick. “Say the word and I can get you on the short list and inside that club.”

Nick was dumbfounded by the offer for a split second before smirking. “Undercover work isn’t really my schtick, Marty,” he said, raising his right hand to emphasize the prosthetic he wore. “Kind of hard to blend in. And don’t get me wrong but working with a precinct of cops that already hate me seems…risky.”

“I could always fill your shoes,” Piper grinned, fanning her fingers through her hair. Almost immediately the others were shaking their heads.

Madelyn softly chuckled at her friend. “Everybody in town knows about _Public Occurrences_ , Piper. Even if you dyed your hair blonde and wore Nick’s trench-coat, you’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

The reporter slumped, defeated. That’s when Marty reluctantly flicked his gaze to where Madelyn was sitting behind the desk. He cleared his throat. “What about the dame?”

Nick raised an eyebrow, irritated that he was still going on about calling her that. “Madelyn?” When he realized what Marty was implying, he made to argue. “Marty, if you think for a second I’m sending Madelyn in with the wolves, you’re outta your damn mind!”

The danger was very real, and while Nick had every right to be upset and defensive, she couldn’t help but feel offended. It brought her back to that night in the agency, after the destruction of Ticonderoga, when he and Deacon almost came to blows. If the last month proved anything, she did her best work not cooped up in the office or behind a desk, but in action. 

“Nick,” she said his name calmly, gaining his attention. The moment he met her gaze, he knew she had made up her mind. But she _could_ ease his worries, if only slightly. “I don’t have to go alone.”

Piper caught on to what she was inferring immediately, a disgruntled expression pulling at her lips as she sank further into her armchair. Nick remained stoic, but eventually relented as he nodded, looking back to Marty.

“You can get her in?” he asked. “Plus one?”

The Boston police detective looked unsure, meeting her gaze for a long moment. “Uh, sure,” he mumbled, before quirking his mouth up in a smile. “You better come with one hell of a disguise, ya dame.”

Madelyn rolled her eyes, and Nick took the cue, politely gesturing to Marty that it was time for him to leave. “Come on, you oaf, you better get back to the pen before they start searching the gutters for you.”

Marty let out a hearty laugh, slapping Nick on the back as he brought him into a handshake. “Don’t be shy around the precinct, Nicky. They don’t hate you— _that_ much.”

The three were silent as he exited the room, listening to Ellie wish him farewell.

“You’re seriously going to take _whatshisname_ to the Third Rail?” Piper wasted no time in questioning Madelyn as soon as the agency door slammed shut.

“He has a name,” Madelyn replied with a sigh. “If I can’t take you or Nick, what’s the harm in taking Deacon? Undercover work is what he’s best at.”

“Are you sure about that?” Piper mumbled, crossing her arms.

Madelyn frowned. Her friend had been upset ever since she had first met the man and learned of the deception it took to keep the Railroad a secret. The strain hadn’t eased, even as she continued to work with the organization and as his partner. It seemed the reporter couldn’t get past the fact Deacon wasn’t willing to divulge much of the truth—at least with _her_.

“What do you have against him?” Madelyn asked, wanting to clear the air.

“I’m just saying Blue,” Piper’s tone softened. “You seem to trust this guy a lot, but you barely know him. How long has it been? A few months? And he’s come in here and— _whew—_ swept you off your feet like it’s damn _Roman Holiday_!”

Madelyn was stunned into silence, a warmth settling in her chest. She couldn’t tell if it was embarrassment, or excitement at having the _relationship_ she had with Deacon described in such a way. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized how whirlwind it had been. Since their first meeting in the Memory Den, she had been chasing that feeling back and forth all through winter. There was an unspoken intimacy between the two, lingering touches and close calls where she was sure either one of them could’ve closed the gap and just _kissed_. And yet, there was also a silent boundary, an invisible line keeping them apart—she had always assumed it was her guilt, the weight of the wedding ring she still wore on her finger, the specter of a dead husband lingering above watching her every move—but now, she wondered if there was something more.

“I mean, what’s with the _codenames_?” Piper sighed. “Do you even know his real name?”

“I—” Madelyn choked on her words, at a loss. Her friend was _right_ , and she was suddenly second-guessing every one of her emotions all over again.

Nick had been silent through the entire exchange, but finally spoke, reading her mind in the process. “Maybe Piper is right,” he mused with a little shrug. “But damnit if this isn’t the happiest I’ve seen you in _months_.”

Madelyn was flattered, especially when she noticed the way Nick was smiling at her, considering she knew how there was still tension between the two men whenever they happened to interact. But her chest felt heavy—the doubt had already started to creep its way in. Piper seemed ready to continue her verbal pestering when Nick sharply shook his head in warning.

“Don’t let it get to you,” he assured—a little too late. Still, Madelyn put forth a small smile and nodded. “We should plan for Friday.”

They had work to do.

* * *

The conversation with Piper and Nick continued to replay in Madelyn’s head the remainder of the day and into the evening. Even on the carbide home (on which she insisted on, so that Nick could make it home at a reasonable hour for once), her mind was clouded with conflicting emotions. She couldn’t deny that she had felt livelier, more like her true self in recent months—but didn’t want to base that happiness on lies or deception. A part of her understood it was the way the Railroad operated, outside the fringes of society where dishonesty was a necessity.

_“Remember, you can’t trust everyone.”_

_“Even you?” she asked._

_“Especially me.”_

Months later, he would put an addendum to his well-spoken phrase, holding her hand as he told her he was in her corner, and always had been. As the memory came to her, all she felt was confusion. Madelyn wanted to see him, but she wasn’t sure what she would do or say, or how her feelings would shift—for better or worse? What was stopping her from acting on impulse like she had been as of late? What if Codsworth had never walked in on them that cold March evening? Would she have kissed him and sealed the deal right then? She shook her head, breaking herself free of her delusions, knowing it wouldn’t do any good to dream of _what-ifs_. Instead, she needed to focus on the future and what she really wanted—if only she could figure that out.

As Madelyn walked into the lobby of her apartment building, she noticed Drummer Boy at the mailboxes, sifting through various envelopes. He regarded her with a polite smile, moving to join her in the trek up the staircase.

“Have a good day at the agency?” he asked.

She sighed, trying not to sound too disgruntled. When he shot her a concerned look, she forced a smile. “It’s been very…busy. With the Winter case, that is.”

“Right,” Drummer Boy replied, letting her half-assed excuse slide. It was difficult to bluff when she was emotionally compromised, and exhausted after a long day—and hauling herself up seven flights of stairs. “I have a note for you, from Deacon.”

Madelyn swallowed down the tightness in her chest at the mention of his name. “Isn’t he in DC?”

He had been put on a special assignment by Desdemona to make contact with the southern branch—something about helping set up a new safehouse for the newfound agents and assisting with their first round of assignments. As much as Madelyn wished she could’ve joined, her obligation to the agency and the Eddie Winter investigation kept her in Boston.

Drummer Boy nodded, handing over a folded note. “I thought it was a serious correspondence, so uh,” his cheeks became red in color, which made her feel equally flustered. “I shouldn’t have read it.”

The two paused on the third story landing if only so she could scramble to read the letter, which was hardly filled with anything important, or relevant. Rather, it was incredibly lewd, and even a modern woman such as herself was turned flushed by the contents. Of course, she realized fairly quickly as the note rambled on and became more grandiose that it couldn’t possibly be _real_. Oddly enough, it sparked a wave of relief as she was unable to contain her laughter.

“You know he did this on purpose to get a rise out of you, right?” she chuckled, trying to give it back to Drummer Boy who waved it away, still red in the face.

“His idea of jokes sure are… _elaborate_ ,” he sighed, lifting his blue cap to run his hand through his hair. “Too much time on his hands, even hundreds of miles away.”

Madelyn regarded his words. “Do you think he’s bored?”

“No,” he answered as they continued walking up the stairs. “The opportunity to set up a new safehouse is right up Deacon’s alley. Not that he doesn’t have the experience, but to do it all on his own is a big deal.”

“He helped with HQ, right?” Madelyn clarified. She eyed Drummer Boy carefully. “After…”

He looked solemn but held back any grief. “After the Switchboard, yes.”

“Deacon’s been a big help to Dez even before the move, he does a lot more than is asked of a regular agent or heavy,” Drummer Boy mused. “You’d think _he_ was the second in command, or _the_ head honcho but…”

She stole another glance when he paused, seemingly in thought. “You know our history, right?”

Madelyn shrugged, taking a reprieve on the fifth story landing. “Tom once rambled off a _lot_ of codenames to me in-between telling me how the air was going to poison me while I slept and that I _needed_ to take the immunization shot he invented to protect myself against ‘invisible bugs’”

Drummer Boy softly laughed, nodding along. “Well, before Dez, there was Pinky Thompson. She only became leader because of a string of organizational failures under Pinky’s watch.”

“Are you suggesting that somebody might be vying for Desdemona’s position?” Madelyn questioned. “As in, Deacon?”

“No, not really,” he replied. “Deacon would never stage a coup like that. Carrington maybe, but never Deacon,” he smirked. “He’s been around…well, before my time. He was around when Wyatt and John D. ran the show, building the Railroad into the organization into what we know today.”

She found herself amused. “I always thought he was lying when he said he helped create the Railroad. Sounded too boastful, even for him.”

“Well, depending on who you believe or what you make of the records,” Drummer Boy flashed an impish grin. “Some of the agents like to think Deacon and John D. are one in the same.”

The confusion from earlier settled back into her mind, but this time, she wasn’t sure what to make of the information. This was just more conjecture—a _rumor_ —Railroad gossip that had been passed down from agent to agent. Deacon himself had even fanned the flames, relishing in the spotlight. If anything, it only fueled the argument set forth by Piper that Madelyn truly didn’t know anything about him—about his past, about his present…about _their_ future. Rather than anger, she felt despair—whatever had been built between them had to end, and when it did, it wasn’t going to be easy.

On the seventh floor, the two separated to their doors across the hall from one another. Almost as an afterthought, she turned back to him, motioning to her ajar door. “I prepared a pot-roast this morning, if you’d like to join me for dinner,” she offered, feeling more awkward than she meant. Even he looked perplexed. “As my neighbor, _Robby_. No Railroad business. Otherwise, most of it is going to Dogmeat.”

After a beat, he laughed. “Pot-roast sounds great, Hardy.”

* * *

**April 11 th, 1958**

Madelyn hardly recognized the woman staring back at her in the reflection of her vanity mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her makeup, searching her drawers for the perfect red hue of lipstick. Her natural golden hair had been tucked back and hidden beneath a long, wavy dark brunette wig, the soft barrels falling over one shoulder and resting across the sweetheart neckline of her dress. _Gown_ —she could hear Jenny correcting—Madelyn reminded herself she would need to be extra careful with the borrowed garment. It would _not_ end up in the box of ruined clothes she had ripped or stained while running around the city investigating with the agency and Railroad.

Outside her bedroom, she could hear Dogmeat happily barking, Codsworth murmuring something while a third voice laughed along. _Deacon_ —fresh from his trip to the nation’s capital, he had wasted no time in agreeing to an undercover operation and promised a _show_. She hadn’t seen him since he departed—communicating through dead drops to confirm their ‘assignment’—and could feel the anxiety bubbling to the surface over her conflicted feelings for him. But that night, more than ever, she would need to suppress her emotions for the sake of the investigation and _stay focused_. 

She slipped her feet into a pair of strappy black heels as she stood, reviewing her appearance in the full-length mirror. The strapless gown was black, with a sheen to it that sparkled under the right light. The fabric hugged her curves (and then some), loose around her legs with a slit along one slide that was almost too high for her tastes. It was unlike anything Madelyn had in her closet, and not something she would’ve expected her partner’s fiancé to own either, until it was offered as the perfect outfit for the evening’s festivities. The only problem was that she and Jenny weren’t exactly the same size—she stretched to reach the zipper again, struggling to get the right angle to make it budge.

“Miss Madelyn,” Codsworth buzzed outside in the hallway. “Mr. Deacon is inquiring about your presence. Is everything alright?”

With a defeated sigh, she opened her bedroom door for the robot, laughing at the way his mechanical eyes widened as he inspected her appearance. “Can you work a zipper?”

“Pardon, mum?”

She gave his metal chassis an affectionate pat as she walked past him, awkwardly holding the dress to her body as she walked the short distance to the main room of her apartment where Deacon was sitting at the kitchen counter, turned towards the hallway as if he had been waiting for her appearance. Or at least she thought it was Deacon—if it weren’t for his ever-present reflective shades, she wouldn’t have recognized him. The black pompadour (which High Rise had strongly hinted wasn’t natural to begin with) was gone, replaced with a short, wavy style instead, a warm ginger in color—it matched his eyebrows. He wore a different, well-tailored black suit than he had before, black wingtip shoes looking like he hadn’t been walked a step in. Handsome was an understatement—Madelyn wasn’t sure what to make of the not-so-subtle transformation—reminding herself to remain on task.

“Need some help there, Charmer?” he asked, breaking the silence. He gestured to her dress and beckoned for her to come closer.

Madelyn approached with a small nod, finding that her tongue felt too heavy in her mouth to speak. She turned her back to him, breathing in deep and straightening slightly when she felt his fingers brush across her skin for the zipper of the dress. What should’ve been a simple and quick movement had turned into another spark between the two, his touch lingering far longer than necessary, thumb sweeping across her spine. But she didn’t move away.

“You look downright sinful.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, hoping he couldn’t sense how nervous she was, how her skin had turned burning hot at his words. She focused on his hair, and curiosity got the better of her.

“Is that your natural hair?” 

He smirked, one eyebrow arching up like he expected something a little more flirtatious from her. “Maybe.”

Madelyn twisted around to face him, resting one hand along the kitchen counter to balance herself. As Deacon pulled his hands back to himself, she noted the glimmer on his left hand and a new tightness formed in her chest at the sight of the golden band. Why was he wearing a wedding ring? At her confusion, he gestured to her own wedding band, causing her to clamp her right hand around the diamonds to hide the jewelry.

“I knew you weren’t going to take it off, even for the sake of an undercover persona,” he explained. “Figured we’d go for the easiest play in the book. Better to blend in than stand out.”

As uncomfortable as she suddenly felt, a new wave of emotions taking over her body and mind, Deacon was right. He was also far more of an expert at espionage than she was—he knew what he was doing, and as much as she didn’t want to admit it, she needed to _trust_ him.

“We’ll need a good cover story,” she offered, nodding in agreement. Still, she anxiously twisted at the ring Nate had given her almost twelve years prior, burning against her skin. More than ever, she could feel the weight of his presence around her, the guilt compounding as she agreed to this charade—even for one night.

“What do you suggest?”

Madelyn deliberated, fidgeting with the slit of the dress before thinking of who had leant it to her in the first place. Her mother had always taught her that when in doubt, use what you know.

“I’m a nurse at Medford Memorial Hospital and you’re a retired army vet. We met when you ended up in my ward after a training exercise went wrong and I had to nurse you back to health. Sparks flew, our parents disagreed, and we had to elope. Thanksgiving weekend, 1954 in Manhattan.”

She thought about the rest of the specifics. “Catherine,” she said. Her mother’s name—not that Deacon needed to know that. “My name is Catherine. Kitty for short.”

Deacon looked stunned. “Did you just come up with all that right now?”

She softly chuckled. “Thank Nick and Jenny, give or take…the rest of the details.” 

“How romantic,” he mused. “I’d say you’re better at this than you think. A natural.”

He stood, signaling to the clock on the wall that they needed to catch a cab across town, or they would be more than fashionably late to the party. Feeling more confident than she had earlier, she smiled at him. “So _husband_ , what should I call you?”

Deacon grinned as he laced their hands. “Dollface, you can call me _Johnny_.”

* * *

The Third Rail was classier than Madelyn expected for a speakeasy, built into one of the abandoned subway tunnels downtown. Even if Skinny Malone and his gang of Triggermen—as he dubbed them—were gangsters, she had to give it up to them for the ingenuity of the idea. There was a certain kind of ambience to the place—low lighting and dark linens spread across the tables—seedy characters lining the walls with leery expressions, it was enough to make anybody fearful. Yet Madelyn felt strangely at ease, and it had everything to do with the way Deacon’s hand was resting along her waist.

For an hour now, they had been seated at a candlelit table, chairs pushed close to ensure their cover as husband and wife remained intact. Despite her comfort, her mind had been running wild, filled with questions about _Johnny_. Was that supposed to be an allusion to _John D_.? As Madelyn took a sip from her glass of champagne, she took a side eyed glance at him, fixating on his hair. She wondered if this was his way of shedding his Railroad persona and if for a little while, he could _be himself_ without anyone knowing. The mystery of not knowing frustrated her even more—this wasn’t exactly the place to confront him for the truth. Instead she continued to sip at her drink, allowing herself one brief moment to think about brushing her fingers through the ginger waves before looking away.

A gorgeous woman adorned in a sparkling red dress crooned a slow song about love from the lit stage, her small band of jazz musicians accompanying her like they had rehearsed the melody a hundred times. Skinny Malone had introduced her as _Magnolia_ —a starlet in her own right among Boston nightclubs, there as a special treat for his beloved girlfriend on her birthday. So far the evening had been as calm as one could expect when in a room full of drunken mobsters, with no sign of anyone suspicious, even as she sighted a few men so green they had to belong to the Boston police force.

“Kitty darling,” Deacon leaned to murmur in her ear. “We’ve got eyes on us.”

She nonchalantly glanced to find a man at the bar taking too many looks at them over their shoulder. In spite of his disguise, his fidgeting and whiskey gave him away. _Marty Bulfinch_. With a small smile she shook her head. “That’s a _friend_.”

Deacon nodded, though his lips twisted into a thin line. “Looks familiar.”

“Hmm?” she was genuinely curious, wondering how their paths could’ve crossed.

He frowned, quickly dismissing the topic. “Not now. Later.”

Madelyn continued to survey the crowd as she drank her champagne, giggling on cue when Deacon would provide her with information from the conversations he was eavesdropping on, under the guise of saying something nonsensical into her ear.

“You didn’t happen to sneak a weapon past the guards, did you?” he asked, fingers tightening along her waist as he took a long sip of his brandy.

She brushed her foot against his ankle, catching his attention so he’d glance down to wear she was hiking up the slit of her skirt ever so slightly to reveal the holster attached to her garter belt—a trick Piper had taught her after watching too many detective movies. Madelyn didn’t realize how practical it would become, the .22 cold against her skin. Deacon made a low sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl and it caused a warmth to bloom in her chest.

“If all else fails, there’s the hairpin in my curls,” she added, adjusting her dress and flashing him a knowing look.

He held her gaze, the candlelight flickering in the reflection of his sunglasses. “We both know how deadly you are with _that_.”

As Magnolia dedicated the next song to Skinny Malone and his _gal_ , Deacon shifted out his seat and extended his arm to her. “Come on Kitty Cat, let’s dance.”

Madelyn took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, her heart racing with excitement and skin tingling alive with goosebumps. Almost immediately she was transported to that first dance at the Memory Den—the electric feeling that had engulfed her body and soul. Maybe she should’ve known then that she would be enraptured by his enigmatic nature. It was inescapable, no matter how hard she tried to deny herself the truth. But what _was_ the truth?

Deacon tugged her close as they swayed to the slow song, dipping his head so his lips were angled near her ear. “What do you think?”

She blinked, struggling to remind herself what he was referring to. Her eyes danced around their environment, looking from the pairs of dancing couples to the patrons that sat at the surrounding tables. As far as she could tell, the only people present were Skinny Malone’s Triggermen and the people Marty Bulfinch had brought from the precinct. If any of Eddie Winter’s men were in the building, they had yet to make themselves known. She didn’t want to assume they wouldn’t take the opportunity to strike, not when the iron was hot.

“Something isn’t right,” she muttered, unsure. Madelyn focused on the bar where Marty was sitting earlier, only to find he had disappeared. In an effort not to panic, she steadied her breathing, looking towards where Skinny Malone was standing, entertaining some guests near the stage. A waitress came by with a new round of drinks, just in time for the birthday toast.

Madelyn tried to lead him closer, but he wouldn’t budge.

“Easy now, kitten,” Deacon assured, the hand at her waist tightening a little. “We have an audience.”

She flicked her gaze over his shoulder to the two Triggermen on the edge of the dancefloor, muttering to themselves as they gestured to where they were dancing. With one steady breath, she slinked herself closer, resting her head against his shoulder. “We need a distraction.”

“I like the way you think.”

Madelyn looked up at him through her lashes, and felt his fingers trail up to her shoulder and then her neck, leaving a burning path in their wake. Cupping the side of her face, she could feel the cool metal band of the wedding ring he wore, reminding her of the charade they were meant to be playing. He wasn’t _Deacon_ , but _Johnny_ —not her Railroad partner, but her husband. If she wanted to, she could kiss him, and blame it all on the undercover assignment. It didn’t matter what her real feelings were—she could face them later—or live in this fantasy and sin for as long as she wanted.

He noticed her hesitation. “I won’t kiss you if you don’t want me to.”

She didn’t say anything, tilting her chin a fraction closer just as Magnolia finished her song. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the sound of clinging glasses and the echoing sounds of _cheers_! It faded away as Deacon’s lips ghosted over hers, and she didn’t even care if the Triggermen were watching. Madelyn fluttered her eyes closed and could feel herself drifting—

A loud crash resonated through the entire club and on impulse she pulled herself away, inhaling a sharp breath as she focused her vision. For the split second she settled on Deacon’s face it was difficult to discern his expression—was he disappointed? It quickly melted away as they both diverted their attention towards the stage where Skinny Malone had collapsed, the table knocked over and glasses shattered. Madelyn was disoriented as she rushed over through the crowd of people—there hadn’t been a gunshot—what had happened?

A stocky man in a well-made, pinstriped suit was inspecting the tray of drinks that had been discarded on the floor. “Boss’ been slipped sumthin’!”

Poison? Madelyn felt the dread settle in her chest—this was unlike Winter—he always liked to take a direct approach when killing off his competition. But she had no time to question his methods when as of late, his crimes had become unpredictable.

“Move away!” she yelled over the crowd of frantic Triggermen. “I’m a nurse, maybe I can help!”

In the chaos, nobody made to stop her as she knelt over Skinny Malone’s crumpled body, pressing her fingers to his throat to check for a pulse. Frosty white foam was sputtering from his mouth and his eyes were wide, bulging. His hands were scrambling at the carpet for purchase, but a moment later they switched to yank at his jacket and tie. It was all in vein as he lie there suffocating, choking on his own tongue—there wasn’t anything Madelyn could do, even if she was a real medical professional. She gave him a sympathetic look, before noticing the thick pocketbook in the seam of his blazer. Without a second thought she snatched it, tucking it as well as she could in the front of her dress.

Skinny Malone began to struggle, gripping the arm of his nearest Triggerman. Madelyn was swept up at that time, Deacon’s hands tight around her waist as he led her away as calmly as possible.

“Time to hit the road,” he said through gritted teeth, suppressing his distress that they would be stopped in the confusion as they made their exit.

As they left the Third Rail, Madelyn felt as though their undercover assignment was a failure. Eddie Winter had gotten what he wanted with Skinny Malone’s death and was one step further in his complete take over of Boston.

It was time to play their hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the crimes mentioned in the first section are pulled straight from the Eddie Winter holotapes questline. Eddie sure does like to self-incriminate! When in doubt, look to the source material! Blink and you’ll miss it, but I did a very small non-name shout out to my Lone Wanderer, Rosie (and possibly her LI, Butch) being Railroad agents in 1958 DC. I would also like to say that the theory that Deacon and John D. are the same person is a prevailing theory in the Fallout community and not an original idea, but something I wanted to include since I came up with this fic. Speculations abound! 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	9. A Left-Handed Form

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After securing an important piece of evidence from the Third Rail, Madelyn and Deacon fill Nick in on the evening’s events and come to a startling revelation. At Railroad HQ, more secrets are revealed in the hunt for Boston’s crime-lord, while members of the team are threatened. Proof of his crimes in hand, Madelyn and Nick finally make their move against Eddie Winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _🎵Mack the Knife_ \- Bobby Darrin
> 
> While the entire work has a content warning for ‘graphic depictions of violence’, the warning kicks into high gear in this chapter, specifically in the last section. 

_“After all, crime is only…a left-handed form of human endeavor.” -_ Alonzo D. Emmerich as played by Louis Calhern _(The Asphalt Jungle,_ 1950 _)_

* * *

**  
April 11th, 1958**

Midnight.

Madelyn felt like she had déjà vu—sitting in the back of a taxicab with Deacon’s hand wrapped tightly around hers, the two rushing away from another devastating scene. Instead of the fiery destruction of Ticonderoga, however, it was the chaotic crowd of the Third Rail, still reeling over the murder of their leader, Skinny Malone. She glanced to Deacon, catching her unrecognizable reflection in his sunglasses—that was the face of a woman who had nearly kissed him under the guise of husband and wife. If only they had more time to stay in those personas— _Kitty and Johnny_ —long enough for her to finally act on her feelings. But Madelyn knew better—knew she couldn’t find comfort in a fantasy life when she hadn’t come to terms with how she felt in reality. Though, matters of the heart were hardly her concern when she had the Eddie Winter case to focus on. While the undercover job was over, their work was hardly done.

Just as Madelyn had done on that cold February evening, she instructed the driver to escort them to the agency. With Skinny Malone’s pocketbook in hand, she didn’t want to risk going anywhere else. There was also the small fear in the back of her mind that she and Deacon had been made—she wasn’t about to lead mobsters to her apartment or the Railroad headquarters. The faster she got to work on analyzing the planner’s contents, the faster a potential lead could be discovered.

“Look’s like the detective is in,” Deacon mused sarcastically as they arrived on the darkened Fens street, helping her from the cab with his lips in a flat line.

With no time for his and Nick’s sustained rivalry, she brushed his hand away and quickly strode to unlock the front door. Madelyn continued towards Nick’s partially closed office door and the light within, grateful for his late nights. Just as she crossed through the doorway, hand on the doorknob, a familiar giggle echoed through the room and she knew she had interrupted something intimate. Jenny was perched upon the large oak desk, one hand wrapped around Nick’s tie and the other hooked around his shoulder as she kept him standing between her legs, the two locked in a passionate kiss.

Madelyn was just about to step backwards out of the room when she bumped into a sturdy chest, tilting her head back to find Deacon—he had covered his natural hair with one of his black pompadour wigs—had he stashed some of his disguises in her office since they became partners? When he noticed what she had stumbled upon, he smiled and let out a low whistle, catching the couple’s attention.

“Sorry to interrupt you two lovebirds,” Deacon spoke casually, much to Madelyn’s mortification. He rested his hands on her shoulders, and she smacked a hand to her face. “We have good news and bad news.”

“Oh, don’t mind me, Mads!” Jenny’s amusement wasn’t all that comforting, especially when Nick’s expression was a mix of embarrassment and irritation. The other woman hopped down from the desk to stand, smoothing out the fabric of her dress before flashing a wink. “ _Humphrey Bogart_ , good to see you again.”

Deacon barked a laugh. “Always a pleasure, Miss Lands.”

“I’m sorry Nick,” Madelyn sighed, moving into his office—no use in leaving now. “We wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

The detective readjusted his tie and if she didn’t know any better, flushed at the smear of lipstick on his shirt collar. As he tried in vain to wipe it away with his fingers, he shook his head. “Shouldn’t you be at the Third Rail?”

“That’s the bad news,” Deacon said, relaxing into one of the empty armchairs. Nick’s annoyed expression intensified at the ominous tone. “Skinny Malone is dead.”

At that, Jenny drifted towards the doorway. “I’ll get us some coffee.”

Nick waited until his fiancé was out of earshot to ask his questions. “What the hell happened? Weren’t there supposed to be a whole group of undercover cops at the joint? Where was Marty?” he pinched the bridge of his nose before dragging his hand down to rub at his chin in thought. “Do I even _want_ to know the good news?”

Before Deacon could make some kind of snide remark or explain in his own colorful way, Madelyn approached, placing the pocketbook she had taken on Nick’s desk. She kept her hand atop the leather-bound covering while he eyed it curiously.

“In order? He was poisoned. Marty was nowhere to be seen, but neither were Winter’s men,” she explained, tapping the book again. “I took this off of Skinny Malone while pretending to be a helpful nurse,” The memory made her stomach churn. “I hope it was worth our trouble.”

Nick took the worn book from her and sat down in his office chair, carefully tugging at the elastic bands that held it closed. Meanwhile, Jenny reappeared with a small tray of coffee, handing a steaming mug to Deacon before approaching the desk. She passed a blue ceramic cup to Madelyn—already made the way she preferred—and another to her fiancé with a grin. But Nick only regarded her with a worried frown.

“Jenny dear, you should take the keys and—”

“What and let the three of you have all the fun?” she smirked, eyeing the way Madelyn was still dressed in her borrowed gown. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, Nicky. I know you want to protect me from all the nasty details, but don’t think I haven’t gleamed enough from what you’ve brought home.”

The redhead circled the desk to sit in the other empty armchair, sipping her coffee as if she was satisfied that she had made her point. Nick sighed, knowing he was better off not arguing with his lady-love. Instead, he focused on Skinny Malone’s notebook, flipping through the pages that were filled top to bottom with scribbled writing. Almost immediately, his brows furrowed, and he reached for his pack of smokes, bypassing the cup of coffee.

“Don’t tell me it’s just a log of when he goes to the can,” Deacon mumbled from his spot. Madelyn shot him a warning glance from over her shoulder and he flashed a coy smile.

Nick ignored his comment, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Seems Skinny and his men were monitoring Winter just like us,” he started, finger dragging across a few lines of fountain pen. “Wiretaps at several locations, stakeouts since he was released from prison and a handful of men on the inside.”

“Did they discover anything?” Madelyn asked.

Working outside of the law, the Triggermen must’ve been able to find more evidence than the agency. Nick flipped through a few more pages, pausing to flick stray ashes into the nearby tray and take a sip of coffee when Jenny gave him a knowing glance. His eyes widened and his smoke nearly fell from his lips as he slammed his palm against the book.

“They followed him to his base of operations!” he exclaimed, turning the pages around so Madelyn could read for herself. With the notebook in hand, she looked over the text— _Joe’s Spuckies Sandwich Shop, near Andrew Station in South Boston_ , _underground cellar and bunker—_ Nick exhaled, “We’ve got him.”

Madelyn wasn’t swayed as she read on.

“Not so fast,” she warned. “The agency is named in here—you specifically— _here_ ,” she passed the book back to Nick so he could read. “Eddie Winter has been watching our movements and the Triggermen knew about it. But it looks like Winter didn’t feel too threatened until recently.”

Nick’s expression darkened as he silently looked over the writings with a careful eye. Madelyn could only stand and watch in silence, gazing over her shoulder to find Deacon studying her with concern. Jenny appeared equally anxious, quietly drinking her coffee as she observed her fiancé fretting over the notebook’s contents. Finally, Nick let out a long sigh, cigarette smoke hanging in the air around his head.

“It seems like Winter has been feeling cornered,” he began. Under different circumstances, he would’ve been happier to give such a statement. “He’s been struggling to turn the last batch of cops and detectives across Boston P.D. including the Chief Sergeant.”

“Sergeant Sullivan?” Madelyn clarified, to which Nick nodded. The Boston Chief had always given Nick and Madelyn trouble and the two had always figured he was one of the first to be in Eddie Winter’s pocket. “If Danny Boy hasn’t been compromised, then maybe we can go to him with our findings.”

“Oh, so we’re going to trust the police now?” Deacon quipped, disapproving of her suggestion. “Same ones that left us high and dry at the Third Rail?”

She didn’t want to admit that he had a point. “Marty should’ve been there, I know. After he gave us that holotape from police custody…”

Deacon leaned forward, curious. “What holotape?”

“Apparently, it has Eddie Winter’s voice on it, along with some damning evidence,” Madelyn explained. Her Railroad partner’s expression shifted as he nodded, and she realized she’d seen that look earlier in the evening. “Back at the Third Rail—you said he looked familiar. What did you mean?”

“You won’t like this,” he winced, before continuing with a strained sigh. “He’s the one I saw in the rearview mirror, walking away from the other car out front of Ticonderoga, right before the explosion.”

“Bullshit,” Nick immediately replied. “Like I’d believe a word you have to say.” 

Madelyn was just as unnerved by the allegation, look to Deacon who only held a sympathetic frown. “I don’t understand.”

“I’d recognize that kitschy tie anywhere,” he continued. “For a crooked cop working undercover, he didn’t try hard enough to blend in.”

“Says the man who never takes off his sunglasses,” Nick said, mockingly. “Marty’s an ass, but one of Winter’s _murderers_? That’s a hell of a leap,” he shook his head. “Why would he stick his neck out for us time and time again, if he’d been playing for the other side the entire time?”

“Either he’s one hell of a double agent,” Deacon shrugged. “Or the worst.”

“Deacon,” Madelyn caught his attention, so he’d look at her. “Are you sure? Are you _sure_ you saw Marty that night?”

“Charmer,” he spoke her codename with such sincerity. “I _swear_.”

Nick still wasn’t convinced, rubbing at his temple in frustration as he lit the end of a new cigarette. “I’m not going to condemn a man over a _tie_.” 

Jenny spoke up for the first time since they had started their conversation about the case. “What did you always say to Marty, Nick?” she said, in a calm even voice—so unlike the usual bubbly tone Madelyn was used to hearing from the feisty woman. “That either his drinking or ambition would get him into trouble one day. Well maybe he was stupid enough to let the greed take over.”

Nick locked eyes with his fiancé, quietly contemplating her words. Jenny tilted her head to the side and grimaced. “He always did wear the most God-awful ties.”

Madelyn struggled to hold back her smile at the way Nick rolled his eyes, conceding with a sigh. If anything, he looked to be disappointed—Marty was somebody he considered a friend. “It would explain why he and the other undercover police disappeared from the Third Rail tonight.”

Deacon hummed, catching their attention. “Are we saying that instead of sending his own men, Eddie Winter had Boston P.D. off Skinny Malone?”

This time his suggestion wasn’t met by outright objection and silence filled the room as they considered the implications. Madelyn hadn’t noticed anything unusual when she was at the speakeasy—then again, she had been frequently distracted by _Johnny_ —maybe that was part of the plan on Winter’s part. Nobody would suspect an inside job. But that still left more than a few questions that needed to be answered. What was on the holotape, and what was Marty’s true role? Another thought crossed her mind.

She pointed at the notebook laying on Nick’s desk. “Anyone find it convenient that Skinny Malone had such an important piece of evidence on him?”

“Like it was meant to be found?” Jenny questioned. What she said wasn’t too far off, but Madelyn had other ideas.

“Or he was planning to hand it off,” she suggested instead. “Didn’t expect to be double-crossed by a bad batch of bourbon.”

Nick nodded, agreeing with her train of thought. “Even with the chips stacked against us, we have the upper hand here with Skinny Malone’s notebook and the holotape.”

Jenny groaned, shaking her head as she finished off her coffee. “There he goes again with the poker analogies…”

“Considering who it came from, that could be a dead-end.” Madelyn noted, solemnly. “We have to listen to it first.”

“You’re right,” Nick replied. “Where would we get access to a holotape player?”

Deacon clapped his hands together, grinning in an all too self-satisfied way. “I think I know a guy.”

* * *

Desdemona wasn’t pleased when Deacon showed up at the Old North Church with Nick Valentine unannounced, but wherever the holotape went, the detective followed. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Madelyn to keep the evidence safe, but he needed to hear what was on the recording for himself. While Deacon gave a report of the evening’s events to the Railroad’s leader by the main dais, Madelyn and Nick sat preoccupied by Tinker Tom’s ramblings. The Railroad engineer and self-described inventor was a few screws short of a hardware store, but besides offering the occasional outlandish conspiracy theory, he hadn’t done anything to offend Madelyn since she joined the Railroad. His behavior was something she was used to—Nick, however, looked uncomfortable.

“I wish I would’ve met you sooner, man,” Tom said with a bright smile, gesturing to Nick’s prosthetic hand. “If you want, I could replace that with some top-notch robotics. State-of-the-art circuitry you wouldn’t find anywhere else.” 

Nick tried his hardest to maintain an air of civility. “I’m sure the folks at MIT set me up well enough.” 

“Oh no, see, that’s where they’ve got you, man,” Tom frowned, shaking his head in earnest. “You can’t trust those scientists.”

Before he could go off on another tangent about how the college was poisoning the water supply, or how to avoid their microscopic food robots, Madelyn decided it was time to steer the conversation to the reason they were there to begin with.

“Deacon said you could help us with this,” she nodded to Nick who hesitated before pulling the holotape from his trench coat pocket. Tom carefully examined the small, yellow, plastic-encased recording and broke out into a grin.

“Oh man, it’s been ages since I saw one of these,” he explained, pushing away in his rolling office chair to a different desk where a large electronic device was set up. Tom swiveled to face them, beckoning them over with a wave of his hand. “After you and my man Deacon went through the Switchboard, a few more agents have been making salvage runs. You’re looking at certified US government property.”

Madelyn wished Tom knew he was admitting to the possession of stolen property to a lawyer—but beyond her agent codename, there was little he knew about her—that was the whole point of _codenames_ and secret identities, to avoid learning too much and forming attachments. She wondered where Deacon had lost his memo. Or maybe she’d lost hers.

“…I’ll just pop this in here and—”

If Tom had been speaking, she had zoned out, and pushed forth a polite smile to compensate. Nick finally looked invested in what the other man had to say, now that they were making progress. With the holotape inside the device, he pressed a few buttons, but nothing seemed to be happening, much to the detective’s frustration.

“Memory hiccup, but…” Tom mumbled, adjusting a few knobs.

Deacon appeared next to Madelyn, gently brushing a loose brunette strand behind her ear. She’d almost forgotten she was still wearing the damn wig and was half-tempted to tear it off when she remembered the ungodly number of bobby-pins keeping it in place. Just as quick as he made the adjustment, his hand swiftly returned to his side. That was one noticeable trait—that when they were around other Railroad agents (other than Drummer Boy) or at headquarters, he was reluctant to be as physically close to her as he usually was when they were alone. It was difficult not to read into, but she found comfort in the tiny gesture nonetheless.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked. Rather than anyone in the group responding, the holotape began its playback.

_Message to Robert Cooper—You did good, Bobby. The wife and girl won't be saying anything. No worries. Hell, once those fat life insurance checks start rolling in, Mrs. Montrano will wish her fat slob of a husband had eaten that bullet 5 years ago. As for what happens next - up to you. Beach, sub shop, car yard - doesn't matter where he ends up. I don't give a shit - I just want him in the ground. So long as Johnny Senior never finds out what happens to his little meatball, we're set. Eddie Winter, signing off._

There was a long pause and Nick nearly toppled out of his chair. “Is that it?”

Tom shook his head, raising his hand to hush him as he toyed with the dials. “This baby has a lot more where that came from.”

“Did you hear that though?” Madelyn was breathless. She’d heard Winter’s voice on the television and radio broadcasts during his criminal trials the previous year, but in this context it was far more frightening. There he was, admitting to the assassination of Johnny Montrano Jr, more or less. “Why would he record something like that?”

Deacon scoffed, bewildered. “He’s insane, this is way past conceited, like he thinks he can get away with it.”

“Shh! _Shh!_ ” Tom quieted them as the tape crackled to life again.

_Message to Marty Bulfinch—Listen Marty, I know you’ve got a history with that private dick, so right now you’re the only thing standing between him and a .44 caliber bullet to the brain. If you want to keep insisting Mr. Valentine has got nothing to hide, then you must not value your life or career. Since everyone already knows about your drinking problem, maybe they wouldn’t be surprised to learn about your gambling debts, or how Mrs. Bulfinch left you to live in New York. Have you seen her Manhattan apartment? Green carpet and white tile in the bathroom? You must pay a pretty penny on those alimony checks. Reconsider my offer, maybe I’ll sweeten the deal with some booze. Eddie Winter, signing off._

“Marty was blackmailed,” Nick spoke the moment there was another break in the recording. He snapped his gaze to Deacon who furrowed his brows in annoyance.

“He still _murdered_ my friends,” he spat.

Madelyn rested her hand on Nick’s arm, trying her best to ease the tension, silently reminding him of where they were. While it was important to learn the circumstances behind Marty’s choices, the decision had resulted in the death and destruction of the Railroad agents—the very people that were helping them now. It wasn’t worth reminding him how _she_ almost died that night as well, if it hadn’t been for Deacon saving her life. The detective sat back in his chair, jaw clenched. Tom took that as his cue to start the holotape again.

_Message to Vinnie Vannucci—It’s time. Start having the boys ask around for that broad the detective is sweet on. Find everything you can on that dame of a partner while you’re at it. Hear she’s some lawyer with the District Attorney’s office—she’d be useful if we can bribe her. Otherwise, I know how good you are at magic tricks. Let’s see if you can make two more nosy dollies disappear. Eddie Winter, signing off._

Madelyn could feel Nick trembling from where her hand was still resting on his arm, fists clenched tightly as he struggled to maintain his composure. A personal threat, almost as if Nick was meant to hear it. Then again, it had been personally delivered to them by Winter’s inside man, so it might as well have been a personalized greeting from the crime-lord himself. Even she had been targeted, but strangely enough, she hardly felt as frightened as she did for the other implicated woman.

“That’s all she wrote,” Tom said, ejecting the holotape from the device reader. “Well, _he_ —this Eddie Winter guy sure sounds—”

“I’m going to kill that son-of-a-bitch,” Nick muttered, standing before she could stop him.

No matter how riled up he had gotten over each new piece of news or evidence in the case against Winter, Nick had never escalated towards vengeance. Even with all the corruption, the detective still believed in justice, still valued the court system and hoped the right people could put Eddie Winter away for good. But now, it was personal.

“What are you saying?” Madelyn asked, watching as he paced in a small line. It only made the panic rooted inside her chest spread. “Nick?”

“We need to head back to the agency and strategize a plan of attack on his base of operations,” he explained. “No more waiting around. We strike as soon as possible.”

“One step at a time,” she urged, waving her hands in protest. She understood the importance of striking while the iron was hot, but if they charged in blind, they were only setting themselves up for failure. “What about Jenny?”

Her open-ended question alluded to the thinly-veiled threat Eddie Winter had placed against her on the holotape, and the devastation etched into Nick’s expression told her he had nearly forgotten in his eagerness to leave. He scrubbed at his growing stubble, at a loss for words.

“The Railroad can help,” Deacon offered, breaking the silence. “We— _I_ —can go pick her up and take her to a safehouse. Make sure she’s protected until this ordeal blows over.”

Nick wouldn’t be so easily persuaded. “I don’t trust you.”

“Nobody does,” Deacon replied, soberly.

Without any other options, Nick flicked his gaze to Madelyn and nodded. “She trusts you. That’s enough for me,” he let out a long sigh. “Deacon, you keep my Jenny safe, or there’ll be hell to pay, you hear?”

“Anything for you, Valentine.”

With one last nod, Nick took possession of the holotape from Tinker Tom on his way towards the staircase that led back through the catacombs and church basement. Madelyn turned to face Deacon who was pensive, expression disconcerting for how well-dressed he was, still wearing the suit from the Third Rail. She likely looked just as out of place, and hardly felt as confident as she had when she first put on the sparkly black dress hours ago.

“I better…” she trailed off, knowing she needed to leave to catch up with Nick.

Before Madelyn could leave, Deacon reached out to grasp her hand, holding it in a firm grasp. His thumb brushed over her knuckles in an affectionate sweep as his lips twitched to the side in a brief smile.

“Keep yourself safe, Charmer,” he said, softly. She squeezed his fingers back in reply.

“I promise.”  
  


* * *

  
**April 12th, 1958**

No amount of careful planning could’ve prepared Nick and Madelyn for what they faced when they traveled into South Boston the next evening, breaking into the Joe’s Spuckies Sandwich Shop when the coast was clear. They had trailed Eddie Winter to the location and watched the building from afar for hours before advancing, hoping they could corner him in the underground bunker. The two slowly crept through the darkened halls, pistols drawn—of course, that didn’t stop two of Winter’s men from sneaking up on them from behind, incapacitating them both with a hit from the blunt end of a gun.

The first thing Madelyn heard when she started to regain consciousness were the opening notes to a Bobby Darin album. Her vision blurred as she peeked open her eyes, and it took several blinks to realize she had been moved to a new location—she wasn’t even sure if she was in the sandwich shop anymore. She tried to move but her hands were bound behind her back—as well as her chest and arms—keeping her secure in the chair she occupied. A little resistance proved that her wrists were bound to another pair— _Nick_. As she struggled to get a glimpse of him over her shoulder, a hand came and jerked her chin from view.

“This one’s awake,” the guard grumbled.

She glared up at the imposing man, wincing at the throbbing pain at the base of her temple where she had been struck. If she were lucky, she didn’t have a concussion. Then again, if luck were on her side, they wouldn’t be tied up in Eddie Winter’s basement. The guard was lucky they had secured a cloth gag in her mouth, otherwise she probably would’ve made to bite at his thumb that still pressed against her cheek. He shuffled away when a new person entered her field of vision—Eddie Winter himself. Tall, lean but muscular, dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Befitting of the Boston crime-lord, he wore an immaculately tailored suit, grey in color, with a little white pocket square. If he wasn’t the scum of the earth mob-boss, she might’ve called him handsome—until he smiled, confirming he was nothing but _evil_.

“Madelyn Hardy,” he grinned, petting at her hair, inspecting a few golden strands. “You are far prettier than I expected.”

Before he could say anything else or run his grimy fingers across any more of her, Nick began to rouse, which spiked Eddie’s excitement. “Come on Detective Valentine, it’s time to wake up. You wouldn’t want to miss out on all the fun we’re about to have,” he gave a light tap to the side of Nick’s head, to which he recoiled, shaking his head in earnest. If he weren’t gagged, he’d be giving the mobster an earful.

“Oh no,” Eddie softly chuckled, leaning away so the two could see him easily. He had inferred a lot from Nick’s resistance. “You brought her into this, so any harm that comes to her is your fault.”

Madelyn steadied herself at the veiled threat. Clearly the man had a plan for them that evening and judging by the other guards that occupied the room, it couldn’t be good. Nick fidgeted, his hands fighting against the binds in vein while Eddie watched, a wild glaze in his eyes. Deacon was right—the man was insane and wouldn’t stop until he was satisfied. She was briefly reminded of Doctor Crocker, but Eddie’s methodical madness was far more terrifying.

“That’s what I like to do, Valentine,” the man said, slowly reaching into his jacket and retrieving his .44 pistol. “Teach lessons.”

She was momentarily confused—expecting far more from the man who had murdered his victims in extravagant ways—until he raised the weapon and quickly shot not at her and Nick but at the two guards standing watch over them. His aim was deadly, each man only needing one bullet each to the center of their skulls before they dropped to the floor with a loud thud. Madelyn flinched at every movement and sound, yells muffled by the gag, trembling at the mix of fear and relief—was she next? Nick’s curses were equally stifled, and more than ever she could feel his fingers working to loosen the ropes. Eddie hardly had a reaction to killing his own men, running a hand through his hair with a disgruntled sigh.

“I can’t even trust my own men, stealing right from under my nose,” he waved the gun to one of the dead men. “Making moves on my girl. Small offenses to some, but to me? Don’t you know who I am?”

The record player switched over to a new song, and Eddie smiled, mumbling to himself about how he adored the song. After adjusting his suit jacket, he sidled back towards them, with a little dance in his step. Madelyn had never been more alarmed by an action—as the man said—this was _fun_ for him.

“You know Valentine, that’s why when I found out you and your no-name agency were snooping around, I wasn’t in the slightest bit threatened,” he shook his head. “A laughing-stock detective and some reject from the D.A.’s office—don’t you know where the fairer sex belongs, dollface?”

Madelyn gritted her teeth, wanting nothing more than to shoot the man herself. Regardless of the unknown factors, it was now just the two of them against Eddie. If they could get their ties free, perhaps they could end this nightmare once and for all. He backed away, twirling in a two-step to the rhythm of the song.

“Still, never can be too careful,” Eddie continued, walking towards an armchair with a large plastic tarp draped over it. Only then did Madelyn notice feet were sticking out at the bottom, and the droplets of blood splattered across the concrete flooring. “I should’ve picked a better inside man. One that wasn’t so blindly loyal to you.”

Whatever Madelyn expected to see beneath the sheet, it was far worse when Eddie yanked the plastic away, revealing the mutilated corpse of Marty Bullfinch. Not even the scene at Earl Sterling’s apartment could’ve prepared her—the only recognizable part of him left was the bright yellow tie around his neck.

“Poor Marty,” Eddie frowned, tilting his head to inspect the body. “But what a piece of art this is, don’t you agree? One of our new _contractors_ , Mr. Pickman—wouldn’t want to be alone with him in a dark alley.”

“I suppose Marty did what I asked of him,” Eddie sighed, turning to a small table where he placed his weapon back in the holster of his jacket. Madelyn wasn’t relieved, however, as he swapped it for a short combat knife. “But that idiot had it in his head that he could still help you, leak information that would end the empire I’ve built.”

The man crossed back over to where the two were tied up, focusing his attention on Nick. Madelyn craned her neck to see that Eddie was balancing the knife’s edge under his chin, smirking as he tugged the cloth from the detective’s mouth.

“Now, Valentine,” he said. “You’re gonna tell me everything you know. I know you’ve been _dying_ to say something all night.”

Nick moved and Madelyn realized that in all the time Eddie had been monologuing, he had been breaking free of his binds. “Yeah, don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”

Nick brought his arms out from behind him in one swift movement, using the forward momentum as he stood to tackle Eddie to the floor. Madelyn felt a surge of adrenaline rush through her veins and she rushed, fingers fumbling to loosen her ties so she could help. From over her shoulder she could see the two struggling to gain control of the knife, Nick finally tossing the weapon far away and out of reach. The next move was to reach for the gun holstered in Eddie’s suit. Panic started to rise in her chest—just as the ropes fell from her wrists and she pulled the gag from her mouth, a shot rang out and she froze, turning to see what had happened.

Another shot and her worst fears started to envelop her as Nick slumped to the ground, Eddie’s hand gripped firmly around the .44 pistol. He was breathless and disheveled, but the look in his eyes was rabid as he locked onto her. Before she could stand, he had stumbled over to her, discarding the gun as he pushed her to the ground. Madelyn was splayed against the hard, concrete floor as he straddled her body, large hands wrapping around her neck and pressing down on her windpipe.

“I like to be intimate with my dollies,” he hissed.

Madelyn wouldn’t surrender to the terror—she wouldn’t die like this. She knew there wasn’t much time to enact a plan of escape and squirming beneath him only made him squeeze harder. But she had a promise to keep, and damnit if she wasn’t going to see Deacon again or bring Nick home to Jenny. It was now or never. If anything, she was spurred on by the repulsive way he was half-singing along to the song still playing on the record-player, smile a sickening a sight.

“ _Could it be our boy's done somethin' rash?_ ”

She twisted her body, reaching down to bunch up the left side of her skirt so she could feel at the cool metal of her holstered pistol. The guards hadn’t bothered to check her for the hidden weapon after taking the one from her hands, and it would be their folly. Eddie’s grasp on her throat made her concentration waver, but she fought through the pain and dizziness. As soon as she had the gun in hand, she pressed the muzzle to his body and fired.

Madelyn sucked in a gasp of breath as his hands released her neck, Eddie’s body falling off of hers as he fell to the floor in anguish.

“Bitch!” he yelled, rolling away and snapping his hands to the wound on his side, blood soaking through his grey jacket. She scrambled away, struggling to stand to keep her weapon trained on him. At her feet, she saw his .44 and swiftly kicked it away. Eddie groaned, snarling up at her. He shook his head and _laughed_. “You won’t kill me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he barked, gradually pushing himself up to stand. Eddie gestured to where Nick was laying motionless on the ground, a slow puddle of blood had started to form beneath him. “He’s not dead. But he will be. Better act fast if you want Valentine to live.”

Madelyn didn’t think twice, rushing to her partner’s side. Eddie took the time to make his slow escape, pulling himself up the basement staircase and out of sight, a trail of blood following him in his wake. She wondered just how far he’d make it in his escape—but the man was resourceful. Right now, however, she had larger concerns. She collapsed on the ground next to Nick, examining his injuries. He had been shot twice—once to his shoulder which was responsible for the visible pool of blood, but there was another wound to his chest which shook her straight to her core.

 _Just like Nate_.

Except, there wasn’t as much blood, and Nick appeared to be half-conscious as she gripped his hand, trying with all her might to rouse him. She wouldn’t lose him like this. Not after everything they’d been through—not in the same way she’d lost her husband. God— _if he even existed_ —wouldn’t be so cruel to her in such a way.

“Come on, Nick,” she wept, the tears already streaming down her face. His eyes lifted, just barely and she gasped, gripping his hand tightly. Her encouraging words were useless, but she spoke them anyways. “You have to get up, we have to get out of here.”

His breath was shallow and ragged, before his eyes closed again. “Tell Jenny…”

Instead of slumping over his body and sobbing, Madelyn moved, on the hunt for a phone to call for help. He could tell her himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first Eddie Winter holotape is lifted word-for-word from in-game text, but the rest are original. So far, the appearance of holotapes are the only non-1950s, Fallout-canon item I’ve had to rely on, as portable cassette tapes did not exist until the 1960s. Boo! Since this is an AU, I say, anything goes! Also, the urge to do a full-blown American Psycho homage with Eddie Winter was strong; “Do you like Bobby Darrin?” Be thankful I reined myself in. 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	10. Do Everything Before You Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet reunion occurs between the group at New England Medical Center, where a life still hangs in the balance. After recapping the previous night’s events, Madelyn is sent home under Deacon’s careful watch. In the quiet of her apartment, the two share a tender moment, until a phone call from Piper shatters the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _🎵Something’s Gotta Give_ —Bing Crosby 

_“I have a theory that you should do everything before you die.” -_ Bruno Antony as played by Robert Walker ( _Strangers on a Train_ , 1951)

* * *

**April 13th, 1958**

Madelyn knew two facts about the New England Medical Center—that Jennifer Lands was employed as a registered nurse in the emergency department, and that according to an article in _Massachusetts Surgical Journal,_ the hospital was recently responsible for coining the term ‘ _immunosuppression_ ’. As she sat in the small waiting area just beside the nurse’s station, she wondered if ‘faulty fluorescent lighting’ should be added to the list, watching as the bulb above her head flickered ominously. The concept of time had been lost to her since she’d arrived, her body and mind on autopilot as it responded to the doctors and staff when necessary.

Hospitals always felt like stepping into a different reality. Deacon had once gone on a tangent about the psychology of liminal spaces—how they were transformative spaces, waiting areas between one point in time and the next—like a threshold between two worlds. Madelyn had compared it to a sermon she’d heard in Catholic school about sacred places, where Jacob dreamt of encountering God between heaven and earth and was imparted with holy knowledge. Their conversation ended with joking that maybe all hospitals were just purgatory in disguise.

With Nick’s life hanging in the balance, it was an unsettling thought.

All she could do after being cleared by a physician was wait in the emergency bay, grateful that the nurses were sympathetic enough to allow her to stay until someone she trusted came to pick her up. Despite being wounded, Eddie Winter’s whereabouts were unknown, and as long as he roamed the streets, nowhere in Boston was truly safe. Still, Madelyn found a small comfort in the sterile atmosphere of the hospital, finding shapes in the speckled pattern of the tiled floor to pass the time.

Piper was the first to arrive, bursting through the double doors with a loud demand that could only be expected of the reporter. She ignored the nurses that tried to stop her from proceeding, rushing over to the line of visitor chairs. Her frenzied expression was exaggerated by the visible lack of sleep and Madelyn wondered if she had been in the middle of an all-nighter when she received the news.

“ _Blue_!” she carelessly tossed her red coat, half of her belongings spilling out of her satchel onto the empty chair. Her hands flew up in alarm, snapping to cover her mouth as she reacted to her friend’s injured state. “Holy shit, Blue, what the hell happened?”

Before she could respond, Piper continued, dark eyes blown wide. “Where’s Nick?”

Madelyn gestured towards a room in which she hadn’t been allowed. “We were separated as soon as we arrived. He’s—”

The emergency room doors swung open again and two more bodies came rushing through. This time the nurses were less inclined to stop the disruption once they saw it was one of their own, the realization washing over as confusion shifted into sympathy. Jennifer Lands paid them no attention as she ran as fast as her heels would allow her to the small waiting area, determination etched into her features. For a split second, Madelyn was worried Jenny was going to slap her for getting Nick in harm’s way—as close as their friendship was, her fiery spirit made her unpredictable at times. Instead, Jenny grabbed her by the wrists and hauled her from the chair into a crushing hug.

“Mads,” she spoke quietly. “Thank God you’re _alive_.”

Madelyn’s reaction was delayed, not anticipating the kind of reaction from Nick’s fiancé. Even though Jenny was a trained medical professional, she didn’t expect her to be so level-headed or strong. A small part of her was envious, but she squashed the feelings immediately—it wasn’t fair to Jenny when the love of her life came so close to death. She hugged her friend tightly, and the weight of her words came crashing down around her. She was alive and Nick—he wasn’t out of the woods yet.

Madelyn pulled away with a sharp inhale, still holding onto Jenny’s arm as she reached up to wipe at the tears that were already threatening to spill over.

“Oh honey,” the redhead smoothed both of her hands across Madelyn’s face and hair. “None of that. You saved my Nicky’s life, you shouldn’t be crying.”

“I hardly saved him,” she protested. “Enabled him, is more like it. Followed him into the belly of the beast and—”

“What’s done is done,” Jenny spoke, a sharpness to her tone that had Madelyn falling silent. Perhaps Nick’s fiancé was handling her grief in different, more silent ways. “I wanted to tell you that Mr. Bogart did a wonderful job at keeping me safe.”

Behind Jenny, Deacon kept his distance from the three women, though it was evident from his expression that he was just as worried, if not as visibly panicked, as Piper. Madelyn was relieved to see him—more than she thought was possible—and resisted the urge to rush to his side in some kind of romantic reunion. If anybody needed to have a reunion right now, it was Jenny and Nick, and he wasn’t conscious to appreciate it.

“You should’ve stayed at the Railroad safehouse,” she complained. “We have no idea where Eddie Winter or his men have run off to, so we need to stick to the safety net—”

“My place is at Nick’s side,” Jenny interjected, sidestepping to take a seat, prompting Piper to do the same. With a long exhale, Madelyn followed, and Deacon copied, sitting in the chair opposite of her. The detective’s fiancé continued. “Tell us what happened tonight.”

Madelyn considered a condensed version of events, but Jenny resisted, prying her for more information as she outlined the operation that led to the break-in to Joe’s Spuckies Sandwich Shop. Upon her insistence, she outlined every gruesome detail—from their restraints to Marty’s death, to Eddie’s taunting set to Bobby Darrin’s _Mack the Knife_. She didn’t stop, even when it came time to explain how Nick was shot—the shoulder wound had torn an artery, and the bullet in his chest had ripped through his liver, missing his heart by a few centimeters. Her hands began to tremble when she recalled Winter’s attack on her, the grip of his hands around her throat so tight she thought she was going to die.

“How’d you get out?” Deacon stopped her short, realizing she was struggling. 

Madelyn found her voice. “I shot Winter. He got away,” she said simply. “I had to get Nick to safety so…I took a risk and called the last person we might be able to trust in the Boston P.D.”

Piper leaned forward, shellshocked. “You called the cops?”

Jenny hushed her, allowing Madelyn to continue. Deacon looked equally skeptical, but she quieted his suspicions with a name.

“Sergeant Sullivan. He was mentioned in Skinny Malone’s book as being clean,” Madelyn blinked hard. “I gave him specific instructions and he brought a skeleton crew to clear the scene and escort Nick and I here. He gave me his word as an Irishman, a Catholic, and a Bostonian that he’d follow the case to the letter.”

“Well that middle one doesn’t do me well,” Jenny mumbled, before nodding. “Sounds like the boy doesn’t have an ounce of corruption in his bones.”

“Blue, are you sure about this?” Piper asked, ever the skeptic.

Madelyn shook her head, twisting her hands in her lap. “No. We shouldn’t trust _anyone_ ,” she shared a brief, knowing look with Deacon. “But Sullivan is our last shot at making sure Eddie Winter is captured. His reign of terror ends tonight.”

The group exchanged silent glances, confirming that while it wasn’t their first choice, it was now their only choice. Jenny glanced down the corridor where she saw an attending doctor standing outside Nick’s room.

“Mads, you’re an angel,” she sighed. “You’ve done more than enough tonight. Please, let Deacon take you home.”

Piper resisted the urge to make a snide comment, jaw set as she watched Madelyn reluctantly stand to gather her belongings. Jenny was right—there was little more she could do by staying at the hospital, and she was just about to fall over from exhaustion. With her Railroad partner at her side, the sound of her apartment sounded like heaven. Jenny pulled her into another hug and passed her off to Piper so she could say her farewells to Deacon as well. Madelyn swore she could hear the redhead mumbling something to him that made him stifle a laugh but couldn’t catch the words.

“You’ll visit tomorrow?” the reporter asked, pulling away to inspect Madelyn’s expression.

She nodded, stepping to stand next to Deacon as he offered her his hand. It felt like a lifetime since she last held it, a spark igniting up her arm and to her brain. Madelyn almost forgot to answer Piper. “Yes.”

She gave one last glance over her shoulder to her friends as they neared the exit.

Jenny smiled, waving in return. “Stay safe you two, I’ll see you tomorrow!”  
  


* * *

It felt like weeks rather than a few days since Madelyn had last been at her apartment, running back and forth between the agency and Railroad headquarters before setting off with Nick downtown chasing after Eddie Winter. She climbed the stairwell in exhaustion, dragging her aching feet behind her and cursing the landlord for once again falling through on his promise to fix the elevator. Deacon quietly followed behind, and she knew if the circumstances were different he might have offered a clever quip about carrying her the rest of the way—she almost asked him to. Instead, on the fourth floor landing she balanced herself on his shoulder and discarded her heels, carrying them in one hand the rest of the way up. She still didn’t know what time it was, but the sun hadn’t risen yet, so she quietly wriggled her key into the lock of her apartment door before noticing that her partner wasn’t beside her. When she turned to spot him he was crouched in front of Drummer Boy’s door, sliding a small envelope beneath the crack.

“Recap of recent events,” he explained, standing to join her as she opened the door for them both. “So HQ knows where we are.”

As soon as they crossed the threshold of her apartment, a flash of silver met her peripheral in the darkness and she flinched back into Deacon’s chest.

“As I live and breathe!”

Codsworth’s alarmed voice echoed through the room as he cornered them in the tiny entranceway. Madelyn felt foolish for thinking the metal robot was something, or somebody other than her friendly—perhaps _too_ friendly—Mister Handy. Dogmeat came running from the hallway, balancing on his hind legs so his front paws could press against the top of her thighs as he sniffed at her coat and dress, still covered in splotches of Nick and Eddie Winter’s blood. The shepherd barked, sniffing her more frantically before barking again, dropping to the ground so he could pace around her in a tight, anxious circle. Deacon closed the door so the sounds wouldn’t wake the neighbors. The dog’s actions made Codsworth inspect her with a zoomed in eye.

“Oh heavens, Miss Madelyn, have you been injured?” he asked, hovering close. She suddenly felt very crowded between her robot butler, Deacon and worried dog whimpering at her feet. “Should I phone for a doctor?”

Madelyn shook her head, raising her hands to try to create a buffer between them. She sidestepped towards the back of the couch, reaching to turn on the small living room lamp. “That won’t be necessary.”

The light only worsened Codsworth reaction, three arms spinning wildly. “Mistress, your neck!” He advanced again and conveyed as much concern as a robot could. “There’s bruises all over your lovely neck, mum!”

Instinctively, she turned away, covering her skin with her hand. She flicked her gaze to Deacon, but the subtlety in her movements made the Mister Handy unit gutsier. He turned his three-eyes to the man and tilted closer, nearly backing him against the door. “Was Mr. Deacon responsible for this heinous act?”

Understandably, Deacon looked horrified at the accusation, shaking his head in protest as Dogmeat barked at his ankles.

“Oh for God’s sake, _no_!” Madelyn reprimanded the two, wincing at the pain in her throat as she spoke. “Codsworth honey, I love you, but I don’t have time for this tonight,” she rushed through the apology, circling his metal frame to press at his shutdown button. “Passcode _ice-cream_.”

The Mister Handy unit crumpled to the floor in a dramatic crumple, causing Dogmeat to turn his attention away from Deacon momentarily to smell at the pile of robotic limbs. He let out a low whine at Madelyn, who only sighed in frustration—that was the last thing she wanted to do—but she could reactivate him and deal with the guilt in the morning. Codsworth, fortunately, wouldn’t remember a thing. She rubbed at her temple, leaning against the sofa for support as the fatigue and swirl of emotions from the last few days fell upon her. Deacon steadily approached, hands hovering over her shoulders as he dipped his head so he could see her eyes. He didn’t move to touch her, and she wondered if he was afraid to do so in front of the dog—like the shepherd would tear him to shreds if he made one wrong move. 

“Ice cream?” he questioned with a smirk but didn’t give her a chance to respond. “I’ll take care of _Snoopy_ here,” he joked, glancing over his shoulder to look at Dogmeat who was still investigating Codsworth’s still framework. “Just take care of yourself, Charmer.”

With a weak nod, she slipped away, lurking in the hallway for a moment to overhear Dogmeat softly barking at Deacon, and his voice echoing back through the apartment. 

_“_ I’ve had worse conversations with inanimate objects.”

As practical and wonderful as a soak in the bathtub sounded, Madelyn feared she’d fall asleep and drown. Not exactly the way she wanted to go out—especially considering she was not alone in her apartment—now was not the time to be naked and vulnerable. She opted for her bedroom instead, tossing her purse and coat in the general direction of her closet before turning on the bedside lamp. She was just about ready to collapse face-first into her duvet when she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, puling a double-take when she didn’t recognize the reflection staring back. Hesitantly, she stepped closer, all the breath escaping from her lungs at what she saw.

 _Blood_ —dried red on her dress and stockings, faded smears on her hands despite the hospital visit—all reminiscent of a cold winter’s night in Boston Common two Christmases ago. Madelyn still had those ruined clothes, stained with Nate’s blood, tucked away in her closet like a morbid memento of the past. History wanted to repeat itself, it seemed, mirroring itself on another blue, A-line dress. She traced the outline with one finger, unsure where Nick’s blood ended and where Eddie Winter’s began—it didn’t matter—both men’s fate were unknown, and she only had herself to blame. Madelyn couldn’t have another death on her conscious.

The guilt overwhelmed her as she tore the dress and stockings from her body, adding it to the pile of earlier discarded items. She changed into a new set of underwear, slipping into a nightgown before securing a robe around her body for warmth. Her knees practically gave out as she collapsed onto her vanity bench, facing away from the mirror so she wouldn’t have to meet her reflection again. When she looked down, she noticed more blood coated over the silver band of her wedding ring, caught in the crevices of the diamond so the shine was dulled. Madelyn quickly removed the ring from her finger, twisting to place it in the jewelry dish on the counter. Her hand felt naked without it, but she couldn’t bear the sight of Nate’s gift to her tainted in such a way.

The tears came without warning and Madelyn succumbed to them with little resistance, unable to fight back with her mind any longer. She sobbed, covering her face with both hands to dull the sounds as the cries ripped through her chest—the sorrow went deeper than the previous night’s incidents. All at once the emotions she had been suppressing from the last two years spilled over in all their glory, threatening to shatter her in two. The remorse over Nate’s death and never solving his murder, High Rise and Henry—even _Marty Bulfinch_ ’s deaths weighed heavily on her mind as she wept, fearing she’d be adding another name to the list to mourn. It was much more than survivor’s guilt clawing at her soul. In some twisted sense, she wondered if the universe was dealing out karma for daring to move on from Nate so quickly. Maybe her conflicted emotions towards Deacon made the cosmic punishment against her worse. But then why had Nick been injured instead of her? Jenny didn’t deserve this kind of pain when the two were so in love and full of bliss. Madelyn deserved all the anguish, all the trauma.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, slumped over her vanity and crying into her folded arms when the hallway floorboards creaked, causing her to hold her breath.

“Decent?” Deacon’s voice quietly called out as her bedroom door creaked open. “I brought you some coffee—just the way you like it— _and_ some whiskey, just in case—”

The words died on his tongue when he realized he’d intruded on her private outburst of emotions. She peeked through a small gap in her hair to find him frozen in the doorway, unsure on how to proceed. He balanced a small tray of drinks in his hand, the other gripped tight around the doorknob. Madelyn had cried in front of him before—that night in the agency after the explosion at Ticonderoga and at the hospital—but comparatively her outburst was tame. This was different. These were the tears of a broken woman who very likely couldn’t be put back together again. Maybe it was best Deacon be scared away now rather than later—at least he could reactivate Codsworth on his way out, right? She slowly sat up, sniffling as she frantically wiped at her cheeks and eyes.

“ _God_ , I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t,” he said, stopping her short. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.” 

Surprisingly (or maybe not) he didn’t retreat, crossing over to where she was, placing the tray down before sitting on the bench beside her. Madelyn opened her mouth to speak, but Deacon shook his head, adjusting so he could delicately wrap an arm around her waist.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he hushed, coaxing her to rest her head against his shoulder.

For a long while she stayed nestled there, wrapped in his loose embrace as the last of her tears fell away. Eventually, her breathing evened out and she focused on the steady pulse of his heartbeat echoing in her ear and how warm his arms were around her body—how safe she felt. Her conscience clawed at her, reminding her not to get swept up in whatever romantic feelings she held for the man—it would only lead to disaster and heartbreak.

“I’m going to start crying again if we stay this quiet,” she mumbled.

Deacon softly laughed, his hand running calming patterns along her back. “The sweater is very absorbent.”

Madelyn gradually pulled away, offering a small smile to match his smirk, unable to think of anything clever to say.

“Codsworth was right,” he broke the silence, frowning as he gestured to her neck.

Her eyes snapped towards the mirror and she hissed—she’d been so distracted by all the blood, she’d forgotten about the present Eddie Winter had left on her skin. The attending physician had informed her there would be no lasting damage, just some bruising and tenderness for a few weeks, and that it looked worse than it was. Of course, Madelyn wasn’t prepared for how bad—the blotches of purple and black a stark contrast to her light skin. She reached to hide the worst spots from view.

“I’ve never looked good in a scarf,” she tried to joke.

Deacon’s hand gently pushed hers aside, fingers delicately ghosting over the marks. His brows furrowed, lips pressed in a straight line as he outlined the shapes and imprints, breath shaky when he finally released the one he’d been holding. His touch lingered, combing back her blonde hair before settling against her shoulder in a soft caress.

“You shot him?” he questioned, and Madelyn nodded.

“I shot him,” she clarified, but she was filled with regret. “I couldn’t kill him. He mocked me for it.”

Deacon shook his head. “You’re not a killer,” he said. “You’re not a coward like some people are. Like he is.”

She had her doubts. “He’s still free,” she lamented.

“Only a matter of time before he fucks up and backs himself into a corner,” he offered, moving to grasp her hand. “We’ll smoke him out.”

Deacon ran his thumb across her knuckles, pausing when he noticed the absence of her ring. He didn’t say anything, rubbing over the divot of skin where the band had laid for twelve years. Her heart raced, unsure of the intimacy being created.

“It was covered in blood,” she explained, barely able to find her voice.

He remained silent, just nodding in response. There was a subtle shift in his mood and expression, but she couldn’t place it, made worse by his ever-present sunglasses. She stared at him, trying her best to visualize the steely-blue color she’d glimpsed in February—but it had only been a second in the dark—for all she knew, her mind was playing tricks. Ever since then, Madelyn had waited for another opportunity to sneak a peek, but one never came. Those eyes were as elusive as Eddie Winter—perhaps just as deadly—if she ever got an extended look.

“Tell me what you want,” Deacon prompted, cutting through the quiet with words that sounded more erotic than he likely meant. Madelyn wondered if that was his intention.

She gently removed her hand from his grasp, lifting both so her fingers brushed along the sharp corner of his darkened frames. “I want to see your eyes”

Madelyn expected resistance, but he only nodded, allowing her to carefully remove the glasses from his face. She set them down on her vanity, focusing on what they’d been hiding all this time. She thought perhaps she’d want to kiss him too, but instead she just stared—blue eyes on blue—inspecting every last detail she’d missed from before. The hint of crows’ feet, a speckle of grey in the iris, a dusting of freckles on the bridge of his nose. Deacon wasn’t just handsome, he was beautiful, and it was like seeing him for the first time.

“Will you stay with me?” she blurted, heat rushing to her cheeks when she thought of how promiscuous it sounded. Instead of fumbling over what she meant, she remained silent, hoping he’d understand as she continued to gaze at him.

“What will the neighbors think?” he teased, grasping her hands again in a chuckle.

Madelyn thought about responding with a joke of her own about how Drummer Boy already thought of them as a couple in the midst of a wild love affair, but held her tongue, opting to bask in the tender moment created. When the night began, she didn’t think she’d end up in his embrace, their eyes locked. Deacon eventually encouraged her to rest her head against his shoulder again, wrapping her up in his arms as he held her close to his chest, one hand sweeping along her back. It was the calmest she’d felt in recent memory.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.  
  


* * *

  
When Madelyn awoke several hours later, she was tucked under the blankets of her mattress and the sun was filtering though the curtains of her window. The memories of the last several days flooded back in an instant, but the expected gloom was overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of calm and warmth. There was another body on the bed, and it didn’t take a detective to figure out who it could be. She slowly rolled onto her back, turning her head to find Deacon was already awake, body stretched out atop the covers as he faced her. His glasses were still on her vanity, but he’d also shed his black wig and Madelyn was awestruck at what the gesture signified. She doubted there were many people who had seen him in such a way, with the sunlight shimmering across his light-red hair, sleepy blue eyes twinkling as he smiled at her.

“Mornin’.”

She mimicked his expression, and felt warmth radiate from her cheeks to her toes. “You stayed?”

“Of course,” he answered, like it was the only answer in the world. A stretch of silence passed between them in which she shifted onto her side to face him. “Wonder what time it is.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, too preoccupied with memorizing the shape of his face, the color of his eyes in the morning light and the reddish-brown stubble that was more pronounced after days of not shaving. The desire to kiss him was stronger than it ever had been before as her eyes drifted across his lips, recalling every close-call they had shared in recent months. “Deacon…”

Madelyn had barely whispered his name when his hand reached across the small distance to cup the side of her face, thumb sweeping over her cheek as he shifted closer. She resisted from sliding her eyes shut, fixated on his burning, focused gaze as he angled her chin up, lips so close she could feel the heat of his every breath. He dipped closer and then away—she caught his last-minute hesitation and stilled, staring at him in silent disbelief. Despite _visibly_ lowering his guard, emotionally, he wasn’t ready. Deacon’s expression shifted into one of shame and Madelyn had to wonder _why_ —why couldn’t he kiss her? Insecurities and doubt began to flood her mind as she questioned every little touch, flirtation and perceived moment that had led up to now. She’d foolishly believed that maybe, he held the same romantic feelings towards her, despite their working partnership. Had she been wrong about him that entire time?

Before either could say a word, her phone began to ring, echoing down the hall from the kitchen. At first, she planned to ignore it, thinking Codsworth would handle the interruption before remembering he was a deactivated pile of metal in the living room. Just another thing to be guilty about. As the phone continued to ring, Madelyn snapped her eyes closed and shook her head in an effort to bring herself to reality.

“I should answer that,” she explained, already shifting to remove herself from the bed.

Deacon sighed, running a hand through his hair, and made to follow. “M—Charmer, wait—”

In her hurry, she hadn’t caught his near-slip. The phone rang the entire time she rushed down the hallway to the small nook, shooing away Dogmeat who was attempting to knock the offending noise down from the cranny. Whoever was calling was persistent, having not given up after so many rings. She answered, pausing to gather her bearings.

“Good morning,” she greeted, before swiveling to check the time on the wall—incorrect, it was well past noon. The caller didn’t care, however, as they immediately began spouting off incoherent information. It wasn’t until the connection cleared that she realized it was her friend on the other end. “Piper? Is that you?”

Deacon emerged from the bedroom and cautiously approached. Immediately, Madelyn’s heart was in her throat. “Is it Nick? Did something happen? We can be at the hospital in ten minutes.”

“ _No_ ,” Piper interrupted with a heavy sigh, tone doing nothing to strengthen Madelyn’s confidence. “Nick is…Nick is fine. Same as before,” she explained, but her voice was shaky, and it was terrifying to experience. “I don’t know how to say it Blue, so I’m just gonna— _damnit_ ,” Piper sucked in a breath and Madelyn realized the woman had been crying. “Winter’s men ambushed the hospital.”

As soon as Piper spoke, the world around Madelyn slowed to a grinding halt, and she felt herself losing consciousness out of pure shock. Deacon caught her before she collapsed to the ground, the phone falling from her hand and bouncing against the linoleum tile of her kitchen as the reporter’s voice repeated—

“Jenny is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O
> 
> The real-life Mass Bay Medical Center, Tufts-New England Medical Center (Tufts added in the 60s), really was responsible for the term “Immunosuppression” in 1958. According to our good ol’ friend Wikipedia, they worked on a demonstration of suppression of the body’s immune system to avoid the rejection of transplanted tissue. The more you know! 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	11. Your Head Always Loses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madelyn returns to the New England Medical Center, and coordinates with Sergeant Danny Sullivan to keep Nick safe while the hunt for Eddie Winter continues. After delivering heart-breaking news to her partner, she travels to the state house to speak with Hancock and MacCready in the hopes they may have a lead. Later, while mourning their loved ones in a downtown church, Madelyn learns a new truth about Deacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Blues in the Night_ —Bing Crosby

_“When your head says one thing and your whole life says another, your head always loses.” -_ Frank McCloud as played by Humphrey Bogart _(Key Largo,_ 1948 _)  
  
_

* * *

**  
April 14th, 1958**

By the time Madelyn and Deacon reached the New England Medical Center, the entire plaza had been barricaded, swarms of police vehicles surrounding the building while uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter, denying entry to anyone without hospital authorization. Local newshounds had crowded the emergency bay as well, clamoring for an interview with passing investigators and doctors. The chaos was more than Madelyn anticipated, the police attendance more abundant than she’d seen in recent months. The Boston Police department had been slow to respond to the increase in crime; disappearances, kidnappings and murders, most, if not all related to the gangland fight for territory. Rampant corruption had everything to do with their indifference—nearly the entire city had been bought out by Eddie Winter. She had every right to be suspicious of their presence, unsure of who to trust.

Piper had instructed them to enter through the side entrance, but Madelyn wasn’t convinced they’d be let through. Even if she managed to push forth some charm and use her credentials from the District Attorney’s office, it wasn’t a guarantee. The two circled the crowd, looking for a way forward. While Madelyn scanned the sea of people for a familiar face, she couldn’t help but glance to Deacon, who was uncharacteristically keeping his distance a few paces behind. He had donned his black wig and shielded his eyes, hiding any trace of the man she’d seen in her bed when she awoke just a few hours prior. For all the times he’d shown her comfort in the past, he wouldn’t touch her now, hadn’t done so since she roused from fainting.

The usually chatty Railroad agent was quiet now too, hardly speaking a word as they traveled from her apartment to downtown. Combined with the grief of Jenny’s death, Nick’s fate, and Winter’s whereabouts, Madelyn couldn’t make room in her heart for the turmoil their rift caused her. Separated by a few inches, it might as well have been miles with how her chest was aching. She clenched her fist, nails biting into her palms so she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out to him, desperate as she was to feel his hand in hers.

As they approached the entrance, a police officer predictably held them back with an outstretched hand, silently deferring to the throng of reporters. Madelyn dug through her purse for her identification, but the cop would not take the paper documentation, or give it a second glance.

“My partner is Nick Valentine, he’s a patient here. Jennifer Lands is—” she hesitated— _was_ —and found her voice again. “Please, you have to let us through.”

The officer shook his head. “Ma’am, this is a secure scene. We’ve had enough loonies try and make their way into the E.R. this morning, we don’t need another one.”

He turned away, dismissing her in full. If she wasn’t frustrated before, she was now. Before she could argue or suggest that Deacon make himself useful and distract the guard so she could slip inside, another person came rushing towards them with enthusiasm. The man was shorter than her, and looked fresh out of college, baby-faced without a hint of stubble. He stuck out his arm, correcting his stance when he realized he’d shoved his notepad in her direction instead.

“Buster Connolly with the Boston Bugle,” he greeted in a rushed voice, as if his press credentials weren’t pinned to his coat. “Did you say you were with Nick Valentine? I could’ve sworn I recognized you! You’re the broad he’s always with, right?”

Beside her, Deacon bristled, but remained silent. She smiled politely, used to the microaggressions based on her gender that almost always erased her career accomplishments. Did _anybody_ remember she was a lawyer anymore? Judging by how young Mr. Connolly was, his mishap was forgivable. Still, she was wary of his sudden interest and refrained from greeting him in kind—the Boston Bugle had its own problems with corruption when it came to covering Eddie Winter’s crimes.

Buster anxiously glanced to his notes. “Can you confirm the validity of the rumors that Eddie Winter was shot and injured sometime within the last forty-eight hours, and that there is currently a manhunt underway to locate him?”

Madelyn maintained composure, even as the memory came back in full force, flashes of Winter taunting her as he crushed her windpipe until she found the strength to fight back. Regret gripped at her with vice-like talons—if her aim had been deadlier, Buster wouldn’t be asking her these questions. If she’d had the nerve to kill him when she had the chance, Jenny would be alive.

“No comment,” Deacon answered for her, and she nearly flinched when his hand rested softly on the small of her back.

The young reporter frowned, flipping through more pages. “I have been tracking leads and rumors all across town, following the Valentine Detective Agency’s progress. Seems to me you’re the only ones that give a damn. There’s way more than what the police and media are telling us, but the higher-ups won’t let me publish anything on a whim.”

“I don’t have the same freedoms as that _Public Occurrences_ paper does,” he lamented, practically staring at her in a similar way Dogmeat would when begging for table-scraps. “You gotta help me out. Is what they’re saying true? Is Eddie Winter behind everything that’s gone wrong in Boston?”

Piper’s voice echoed in her mind— _freedom of the press_ —and she nodded.

“Yes,” she responded. “Yes, its all true.”

Buster scrambled to a fresh page, eager to write down the details, but he wouldn’t get a chance. The officer at the side entrance turned to face them again, pointing at her and Deacon.

“Miss Hardy was it?” he questioned, sheepishly. “I’ve been instructed to let you by. Sergeant Sullivan is inside waiting. He’s should be at the nurse’s station.” He instructed, pulling back one of the barricades so they could step through. “I uh…sorry about before.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Just as Madelyn stepped through the doorway, she looked back to Buster, who was observing the entire exchange from the sidewalk. “Write the article.”

The inside of the hospital was just as bustling as it had been outside, nurses and doctors scrambling to work around the cops and detectives crowding the halls. Last night the emergency room had been a ghost town, but today almost every bay was occupied with freshly injured. In the center of it all, Sergeant Danny Sullivan stood, directing his men to different areas of the building and reading over reports passed to him by passing officers. 

“What the hell happened?” Deacon muttered, surveying the mayhem.

Madelyn wondered the same, moving to where the Chief Sergeant was dismissing the last of his force. “…and send an extra squad to city hall. Don’t know if the bastard is brazened enough to attack the mayor, but after this…” 

Sullivan rubbed at his jaw, deep in thought before performing a double-take in Madelyn’s direction. Instantly, his expression transformed into one of deep sorrow—a look she was all too familiar with. She wasn’t about to dismiss his sympathy, however, regardless of how new their alliance was.

“Miss Hardy,” he sighed, with a small shake of his head. “I didn’t think we’d be seeing each other again so soon, under such…grim circumstances.” His eyes flickered to where Deacon stood to her left, his hand still pressed against her back. “Is this your…?”

Sullivan’s subtle suggestion made Deacon drop his arm to the side, and she straightened, sucking in a breath so she wouldn’t overreact. In the past, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity to joke about being her significant other. Given the situation, it hardly seemed appropriate now. Nevertheless, the loss of contact left her cold. She steadied her resolve, knowing it was not the time to worry about her tumultuous feelings for the man.

“Sergeant Sullivan,” she greeted with a small gesture. “This is Deacon. I may have mentioned his work with the agency.”

“What is it that you do, exactly?” Sullivan asked, light eyes studying him carefully from head to toe as they shook hands. 

Deacon offered a small shrug, a glimmer of his usual self shining through. “That’s a need to know basis.”

Madelyn redirected the conversation, needing answers to the questions burning in her mind. “What happened?” she asked, voice breaking as she fought back a sudden wave of emotion.

Sullivan released a long sigh. “What we gathered from witness reports is that a group of Winter’s men attacked the hospital just before daybreak. They took hostages, including Miss Lands. A police force showed up, but it was a mix of his pocketed men and straight cops. All hell broke loose as soon as I arrived on scene.”

He pointed to the various medical bays. “We’ve got a few downed officers, two nurses, and one of Eddie’s,” he swallowed, the grim expression returning. “One fatality.”

_Jenny_.

Madelyn nodded, shifting her gaze to a far corner where the lights were dimmed, curtains drawn tight to prevent entry. Outside, two heavily armed officers stood guard, giving the appearance they were protecting a priceless set of jewels rather than a corpse. Jennifer Lands was precious, however, deserving of such safeguarding. The guilt threatened to suffocate Madelyn as she thought—if only Jenny had been under such careful protection when she was alive.

“Where’s Nick?” she barely managed to ask.

“Safe. He woke up an hour ago,” he explained with a deep frown. “He doesn’t know about…” Sullivan shifted uncomfortably. “He’s under the impression we’re here because it was a failed attack on his life.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t?” Madelyn countered.

“Until Winter is caught, I don’t think any of us are safe,” he responded. The sergeant further contemplated her question, fingers tapping at his chin. “I’d like to move him to a new, secure location, but I’m not sure if he’ll agree.”

At least Sullivan understood who he was working with. Nick wasn’t conscious when she’d set up their arrangement, and even before the Eddie Winter case, had never gotten along with the sergeant or Boston’s _finest_. Considering he was awaking to a new reality in which Eddie Winter was still free and his fiancé was dead, Madelyn wasn’t sure how her partner would react.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, realizing she’d be the one to tell him about Jenny’s fate—a heavy burden, but it wouldn’t be right if the news came from anyone else.

Sergeant Sullivan escorted the two around the nurse’s station to the opposite side of the emergency bay, to the farthest room with a door. The blinds in the window had been drawn shut, either to stop bystanders from peeking in, or to prevent Nick from seeing more than necessary. A well-dressed detective stood guard, nodding to his superior as they approached. On the other side of the door, a body stood from the row of waiting-room chairs.

“Blue?”

Madelyn didn’t hesitate to embrace Piper as her friend rushed towards over, arms wrapping around her in a tight circle. The usually sarcastic and chipper reporter was now sobbing, face burrowed in the fabric of her friend’s coat. Madelyn consoled her, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over—if she lost poise now, she’d never be able to face Nick.

“It all happened so fast,” Piper’s muffled voice whispered by her ear. “Jenny—she, she’d stepped out for only a minute and the next thing I knew, Winter’s men were attacking. I shouldn’t have let her out of sight—”

Madelyn hushed her, wanting to take away the blame. If anyone was responsible, it was _her_ —for letting Eddie Winter escape and live out his revenge plot fantasies. Nobody else deserved to shoulder the weight of that blame. Piper slowly pulled away, rubbing at her eyes before releasing a shaky breath. She regarded the two men standing astride with mild discontent but quickly refocused on Madelyn.

“I couldn’t tell Nick,” she spoke, the devastation and exhaustion clear. “He was too delirious, wanting an update on Winter, asking about you…” Piper pursed her lips, preventing herself from weeping once more. “Asking for Jenny.”

There was no stopping the tears now, hazing her vision as she blinked them away so they’d slide down her cheeks. With a small nod, she moved to open Nick’s door, but Piper stopped her, turning her away for one last hushed exchange of words.

“Did—did something happen between you and Deacon?” she asked, glancing over her friend’s shoulder to where he was standing out of earshot with Sergeant Sullivan. Was it that obvious? Madelyn didn’t have the time to explain it was more of a non-event that was causing the palpable tension in the air.

She frowned, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Not now.”

For once, Piper didn’t dig for more information. The two exchanged one last solemn look before Madelyn slowly let herself into the hospital room. The fluorescent lighting wasn’t as harsh in the small space, but the smell of antiseptic tickled her nose. Nick was propped up in the bed, the thick swath of bandages visible through his gown. He was still connected to an IV, and judging by the way his head rolled, they were keeping his pain managed.

“Hey doll,” he rasped, the green of his eyes dull when they slid open to look at her in the doorway. “Why all the tears?” his lips pulled to the side in some semblance of a smirk. “I’ve never felt better.” 

_God_ —she choked back a sob—she was going to break his heart, and her own in the process. Hesitantly, she approached and stood next to the bed, gasping when his hand reached out grasp hers. Her knees were trembling—hell, her whole body was shaking with the overwhelming anxiety of what she had to say. Nick’s eyebrows furrowed, sensing there was something wrong. He studied her face, eyes lingering across the bruises around her neck. But she shook her head, preventing him from speaking.

“Nick,” she gripped his hand tighter, bracing herself to that spot. “I—I’m so sorry—”

He was perplexed. “What? What for?”

Madelyn didn’t miss a beat. “Jenny.”

It was all she needed to say.

Nick squeezed her hand hard— _reactionary_ —and then simply let go. She watched his face, the clench of his jaw as the realization set in. Their eyes met, silently confirming the horrible truth—Jenny, _his_ Jenny was dead. Madelyn had never seen Nick cry, but there was a first time for everything. Silent, as they streamed down his face and left tracks on his skin. She hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow, the subdued reaction was all the more unnerving—like his soul had departed, leaving behind an empty shell.

Then, he asked the inevitable. “Where is Winter?”

Unable to hide the truth from him, she answered honestly. “I don’t know.” 

Nick recoiled, expression swiftly shifting as the anger bubbled to the surface. “What do you mean, _you don’t know_?”

“I—” Madelyn gaped, stumbling over what to say. “I shot him.”

She left out the details in-between, even though the marks on her skin were clear as day. She continued, struggling to stay in check—quickly spiraling when it wasn’t fair to Nick, who had every right to his emotions.

“I had to help save you,” she explained, tentatively resting her hand against his arm. “He—he got away.”

“He should be dead!” Nick barked, tearing away from her.

Madelyn flinched at the sound of his voice, echoing through the room. She couldn’t deny him the rage, however—he was right—and it was _her fault_. No explanation or apologies would ever suffice for the grief she’d caused. Nick started to shift from the bed, blinded by his fury.

“I’m going to find that bastard and blow his brains out!”

The door to the hospital room swung open, two nurses shooing Madelyn away as they practically pushed Nick back into the bed, one deftly administering a sedative that had him complacent within moments, and unconscious the next. Piper and Sullivan stood in the doorway, watching intently, parting to make room for her exit. She nearly collapsed in the closest chair but knew she couldn’t succumb to the darkness yet.

“Do you have any leads on Winter’s possible location?” she asked, surprising the two with her demeanor.

“Miss Hardy, I’ve got the rest of my best men working this, and officers on loan from Salem and Nahant combing the city,” he explained, trying to set her at ease. “You don’t need to do the legwork anymore.”

“Yes,” she argued, glancing to Piper who understood the determination and remorse she was carrying. “Yes I do.”

The reporter nodded at the sergeant. “We have our own resources. Our own informants. Blue just might turn up something your _best men_ can’t.”

Sullivan relented with a long sigh. “Please, at least take a police escort—”

“No,” she protested, flicking her gaze to where Deacon was leaning against the opposite wall, expression unreadable as ever. That is, until she spoke, and his lips twisted into a frown. “I need to do this alone.”

The group said nothing, though she wondered if any of them truly agreed with her sentiment. Regardless, she had a plan, and needed to follow through with it.

“I’ve placed my faith in you Danny,” she said, glancing back into Nick’s room with a solemn expression. The sergeant silently nodded, understanding her meaning. “Don’t make me question that choice.”  
  


* * *

**  
**The Old State House used to be the seat of Massachusetts government, until the _New_ State House was built to replace it, standing tall for over a century. While Mayor McDonough occupied the new building and city hall, the Old State House doubled as a museum and John Hancock’s base of operations. One of the last places of refuge in Scollay Square, the mayor’s brother had built a reputation for himself as a trusted member of society. Still a somewhat shady character—you wouldn’t want to double-cross him—but he took care of his own. Fed the hungry, ran grassroot campaigns for the underprivileged, and was currently running a fierce campaign in an effort to kick the older McDonough from office. While Madelyn had limited run-ins with the man in the past, she knew he was somebody she could trust. Especially when it came to helping Nick and hunting down Eddie Winter.

_Of the people, for the people_ —she regarded the red banner strung from the overhead balcony before entering the building, noting the sign that directed her upstairs if she was looking for ‘ _the offices of Mr. Hancock’_. On the second story landing, she was greeted by a familiar face, though his actions were troublesome.

“Robert?”

MacCready grimaced at the formal use of his name, briefly pausing in his pacing to regard her as he took a long drag of his cigarette. He had never quite looked his age, but right now, he looked even worse for wear.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, glancing around. “Is everything okay?”

“I should be asking _you_ that,” he responded, shaking his head. “Heard what happened at the hospital. To Nick,” he frowned, stopping to frown. “To Jenny.”

“But Eddie Winter is still out there? And here I am, a _rat_ that helped you guys chase him down!” he continued, rushing through his words as he smoked through one cigarette and lit another. “I could be next!”

Madelyn sighed, wringing her hands together as she listened to the fear in his voice. Sullivan had made a similar notion—nobody was safe. As long as Eddie Winter remained free, anybody could be his next victim. She was about to offer her sympathy when the door behind him creaked open, revealing Hancock.

“Look who it is,” he greeted with an easy grin. By his side, a young boy was holding his hand, nervously hiding behind the trail of his red coat. “Did I mention how your pacing is scaring the kid?”

MacCready straightened, flicking his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with his boot. “Sorry.”

“You ask me to babysit, and this is the thanks I get?” Hancock softly laughed, encouraging the young boy to step out from behind him. He crossed over to the mercenary, gripping his hand instead, switching his curious gaze towards Madelyn.

“This is Duncan, my son,” MacCready explained. “Can you say hi to the pretty lady?”

She smiled, maybe for the first time that day as Duncan waved his little fingers in her direction. “Hello.”

Hancock noticed her disposition and waved her over to his office. “Okay, the grownups are going to chat now,” he teased, earning an eyeroll from MacCready. “Bye-bye Duncan!”

“Bye-bye, John,” the little boy responded. “Bye-bye, pretty lady.”

Hancock hovered his arm around her waist as he led her inside, gesturing her to sit in the large, leather chair before his desk. Instead of sitting in his chair, he leaned against the sturdy oak, and crossed his arms.

“First, I want to offer my condolences,” he said, lips twisting into a grimace. “I know Nicky and I aren’t close, but it ain’t right what they did to Jenny.”

Madelyn nodded, twisting her fingers into the fabric of her dress. “That’s why I’m here, actually.”

“What, for sympathy?” Hancock smirked.

“No,” she furrowed her brows, remembering how difficult the man could be. “For help. Eddie Winter. He’s still out there. I want to know if you know anything, if you’ve heard anything.”

Hancock’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise, but he relaxed. “That’s a big ask, sister. But I’m happy to oblige. Winter is no friend of mine.”

“There were rumors that the police knew Eddie was planning on going after Valentine and Jenny, but it seemed so outrageous that nobody wanted to believe he’s be so brazen to go after a civilian.”

Madelyn knew there was truth to that based on the holotape with Eddie Winter’s vague threat. To hear there was more behind his recorded warnings, that the police _knew_ —she was horrified. Though, it explained why so many corrupt officers showed up at New England Medical Center, only to cornered by Sullivan and his team. Jenny’s death, it seemed, was inevitable.

“I’m going to say something controversial, but hey, its kind of my shtick,” Hancock shrugged. “Did you ever stop to think Jenny was _allowed_ to die, so they’d have something concrete to go after Winter for? This city doesn’t give a shit about mobsters being offed. But a beautiful, innocent dame?”

He cocked his head to the side, raising his hands. “Talk of the town.”

Her gut reaction was to stand and punch the blonde man’s grin off of his face. Reason and sensibility held her back as she thought about what he was suggesting. One person came to mind.

“Do you know anybody at the Boston Bugle?”

“Why?”

Madelyn shifted in her seat. “If we can’t find Winter the old-fashioned way, it’s time to lure him out. Scare him out with what we know. Piper’s tried with her smear campaigns, but it isn’t enough.”

Hancock nodded, understanding where she was heading. “Yeah, I got connections. And if they aren’t willing, I can be… _persuasive_.”

She stood, grasping his hand in a firm handshake. Surprisingly, the man pulled her into a loose hug, patting her affectionately on the back. When he pulled away, there was a subdued smile pulling at his lips.

“Whatever you need, sister.”  
  


* * *

  
It was late by the time Madelyn left the Old State House, and common sense told her it was best to head home. Yet, she refused a ride from Hancock and neglected to share a cab with MacCready, insisting she would be fine on her own as she wandered aimlessly down the sidewalk. Walking alone in the dead of night in Boston Common—any rational person would call her crazy. Maybe she had a death wish. Or maybe, she was hoping Eddie Winter would surprise her from some dark alleyway and she’d get a second chance at taking him down. Realistically, though, she wasn’t sure if she’d be capable even if with a new opportunity for revenge. That belonged to Nick, and Nick alone.

Madelyn headed west, lingering for a long moment by the park gates. She hadn’t been there since early January, and before then, she had avoided the area ever since Nate’s murder. Instead of drifting towards the spot in the street where she’d lost a part of herself years ago, she stared down at the strip of red brick that signified the Freedom Trail. She studied the bronze plate, frowning at the red paint that had faded over time.

“Dame like you shouldn’t be out this late.”

_Deacon_. She twisted around to find him leaned against the nearest streetlight, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. It mirrored their first— _second_ —meeting, albeit the tone and dynamic between them had changed significantly since that cold, snowy night. Even so, she was glad to see him, heart a nervous pitter-patter in her chest when she thought about the circumstances keeping them apart.

“Nice to know you’re still following me around,” she responded lightheartedly, offering a small smile.

He approached—careful measured steps before he was standing in front of her with a similar, hesitant expression. “Of course,” he replied. “Someone’s got to.”

“Come on,” he said next, raising his arm to silently encourage her to link elbows.

Madelyn reciprocated, savoring the sensation, unsure of how long the physical contact would last. They had crossed an unspoken boundary—almost kissed—and now, she feared their bond would never be the same. It was selfish of her to want more, how greedy she felt to have his hands on her body, but it wasn’t meant to be. For now, she’d take what little comfort she could get.

She didn’t ask him where they were going as he led them further away from Boston Common, closer to Trinity Plaza and the library. It wasn’t until they circled the street corner and paused that she realized his intended destination—Trinity Church. The tall building, with its exquisite arches and stonework, stained glass windows shimmering in the moonlight stood as a sanctuary in the center of the Back Bay district. A beacon of hope to many, but to Madelyn, the sight made her anxious.

“Come on,” Deacon encouraged again, gently tugging her along when her feet didn’t budge from the sidewalk. She steadied herself, gripping his arm tight as she moved. If this is where he wanted to go, then she could find the resolve to follow.

Inside, the church was devoid of congregants, the lone priest silently acknowledging the two as they passed through the corridor and between the many rows of pews. Deacon led her towards the front corner of the expansive building, their footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling as they went. He stopped before the small dais of burning votive candles and shifted his arm to gently hold her hand. Growing up in a devoutly Catholic home, she was more than familiar with their intended use, and figured Deacon shared a similar upbringing—with all his biblical references and insistence on Railroad safehouse locations being abandoned churches, she’d be surprised if that turned out to be another one of his lies. She was only confused as to why he’d brought them there now. Madelyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, let alone in a church, and she hadn’t lit a candle for someone since Nate’s funeral. The memory had her trembling, squeezing Deacon’s hand so she wouldn’t collapse to the floor in a fit of tears.

“Remember when I said it couldn’t get much worse?” Madelyn recalled, swallowing the lump in her throat as she watched the flickering flames. “I’m afraid I was lying.”

“I do it all the time,” he responded with a cynic, half-smile and then reached out for a loose taper, passing one to her free hand. She dipped the end into the flame before passing it along to a new candle, watching as the wick ignited.

“For Nick,” she whispered, repeating the action for another name, the prayer silent in her mind. “For Jenny,” her voice wavered as she thought about how fresh that grief was. Some wounds never healed. Her vision was hazy with tears when she spoke again, lighting one last candle. “For Nate.”

Deacon’s grip on her hand tightened and she glanced to him, watching intently as he mimicked her movements, lighting his own candle. She figured that lone flame signified all the Railroad lives that had been lost—friends and colleagues that he couldn’t protect—like High Rise, or Henry.

He sighed. “For Barbara.”

Madelyn stared at his profile, unable to respond. An overwhelming sense of curiosity was begging her to ask—but she remained silent, releasing a shaky breath only when she realized she’d been holding it in. He turned his head, ever so slightly, and she knew he was looking at her through the darkened shades. She could feel the rapid beat of his pulse along his wrist, terrified he would pull away. But he stayed perfect still, just watching her.

“I’m a liar,” he suddenly spoke, not in the usual teasing manner he admitted to. This was anguish— _regret_. “Everybody knows it. I make no secret of it. Because the truth is, I’m a fraud. To my core.”

She didn’t know what to say, baffled at where this sorrow was coming from. Then again, maybe the events of the last few days, weeks and months had finally caught up to Deacon, and _she_ had been the catalyst. Pushing him too far by asking too much of him, revealing too much of his true self. As if she didn’t have enough regrets.

“When I was young— _God_ , how long ago now—I was…” he winced, eyebrows knitting together. “I was scum. Violent—”

Madelyn interjected. “We all make mistakes.”

“These weren’t just _mistakes_ ,” he protested. “You have no idea what I did.”

She gave him the chance to explain, and he did, continuing with a heavy sigh.

“Freshman year at Massachusetts Bay, I ran with a gang,” he started. “This was when all the crime families still had their footholds in Boston, and the Gunners had their fair share of crime statistics. We were the University Point Deathclaws—sounds cliché, but we were ruthless. Terrorized South Boston and Quincy just as much as those Gunner bastards.”

“Were you really that bad?” she asked, chest tightening. Madelyn wasn’t sure if it was in fear of the truth, or sadness that he’d held this back from her for so long.

“Worse,” Deacon muttered, turning away. “We kept egging each other on. Started with some property damage, graduated to some beat downs. Then, inevitably, a murder.”

Madelyn refrained from reacting, even though her heart was racing—so loud, she could hear it pounding in her ears. He had to be selling her another one of his lies, but there was a certain level of sincerity in his tone that told her otherwise. It was all true. He didn’t say anything for a long time, fingers twitching in her grasp, unable to look in her direction.

“Believe me when I say I didn’t know what they had planned to do that night until I was called up to help dispose of the body. That was enough for me,” his jaw tightened. “It was his eyes. Those eyes haunt me.”

Deacon continued, the burning candles reflecting off his shades. “As soon as I was able, I turned my _brothers_ in, turned witness for the prosecution, and walked away scot free. It wasn’t fair, but back then, I only cared about getting as far away from the _Deathclaws_ as possible. I broke all contact, transferred to D.C. and moved on with my life.”

“Then one day I found someone,” he said, pausing to release an uneven breath. “She saw something in me I didn’t know was there. Barbara, well, she was…She just was. I didn’t deserve her, but I married her all the same.”

Madelyn swallowed down the pain that burned at her throat, unable to ignore the way her stomach twisted into knots. Another woman—a woman who had loved him, and who he had loved in return. She cursed at the jealous thoughts running through her mind, knowing she had no right to them. Not when she had experienced a similar past—a profound love that had slipped through her fingers, lost forever.

“We were trying for kids,” he admitted, digging the knife in further—but he had no way of knowing that she and Nate had similar plans before his death. “Being with her made me feel like the whole world had a chance. She could do that to people.”

It was incredibly difficult to force herself to speak, to sound genuine. “She sounds special.”

“She was,” he responded. “The Claws found out about where I was, came to get their revenge. There was…blood.”

“I—I’m so sorry,” her breath left her in a strangled gasp. Even though she could infer the answer, she had to ask. “They…they killed her?”

Deacon glanced her way. “Yes.”

“I don’t remember much clearly after that. I know I killed most of them—self-defense maybe, but I must’ve made a big impression. The Railroad made contact, helped me disappear. They were sympathetic, seeing I’d just lost my wife. And, well, what I did afterwards.”

“I had no idea,” she murmured, shellshocked by his confession. He’d killed—found the revenge she’d been denied after losing a beloved—she wasn’t sure if she should be terrified of him, or in awe.

“Nobody does,” Deacon replied, nearly broken. Her heart leapt at the realization—she was the only one that knew. “I don’t even know why I lie anymore. But I can’t tell the truth. Everyone—Tom, Dez, Carrington, _you_ …” he trailed off with a despondent sigh. “They deserve to be in the Railroad. I don’t. I’m everything wrong with this whole fucking Commonwealth, just as bad as Winter’s men who’ve been murdering and corrupting the city.”

“Charmer, you’re—” He squeezed her hand like it was the only thing keeping him rooted to that spot. “I don’t deserve—”

The words died on his tongue, leaving her to speculate what he couldn’t say. Madelyn always knew they were two sides to the same coin but didn’t realize how alike their pasts were. They had walked mirrored paths to end up in that exact moment, clasped hand-in-hand like two converging souls finding their way back to one another. Nothing had ever left her so confused, yet so full of clarity at the same time, every past flicker of emotion she’d held for him validated in one single moment. Fate had brought them together—a cruel fate—but fate nonetheless, and Madelyn didn’t want to let go.

“Why tell me the truth now?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Deacon’s response was an action—simple enough—the gentle swipe of his thumb across her fingers, over the spot where she should’ve been wearing her wedding ring. She understood immediately, thinking back to the shared moment in her apartment and his hesitation to kiss her. But now, he’d lowered his emotional guard, let her beyond the walls where no one had been in years. He needed her to accept him for who he was—not just devoid of his disguises and gimmicks—but without the lies and stories. All the flaws, the mistakes—he needed her to understand he was still seeking atonement for the past.

So was she.

Madelyn caught him off guard when she turned towards him, gently tugging on his hand so he’d face her properly. He stared at her expectantly, lips parted as if he had something to say. Their conversation still weighed heavily on her mind—she wanted to kiss him, but there was still too much grief consuming her heart. Without saying another word, she wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing her face against his shoulder as she hugged him, hoping it would be enough. Instantly, his arms enveloped her, tucking her tight against his chest as he rested his chin on her head. Wrapped in the warmth of his embrace, she felt at peace, listening to the pounding of his heart.

“I’m in your corner, Deacon,” she said, quietly mumbling the words into his shoulder, echoing a sentiment he’d shared with her before. “I’m with you, till the bitter end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since synths don’t really exist in this story (or do they? *shifty eyes*), I had to change up Deacon’s backstory a little bit. Heavy use of canon dialogue, but it worked so well to change it. 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ eeveevie! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	12. In the Name of the Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the media helps expose the truth about Boston’s corruption and crime, Eddie Winter finally comes out of hiding. On the steps of the courthouse, while waiting for an indictment to be brought down, the city’s crime-lord attempts one last coup, but Nick intervenes. Later, while Madelyn and her partner discuss the future of the agency, Deacon appears with a lead on an old cold case.

_“In the name of the law.” -_ Inspector Karl Lohmann as played by Otto Wenicke _(M,_ 1931 _)_

* * *

**April 21st, 1958**

“I don’t like this.”

Clutched in Piper’s hand was the Sunday edition of _Publick Occurrences—_ the previous day’s bombshell announcement that the District Attorney was moving forward with a grand jury trial against Eddie Winter after pressure from Chief Sergeant Danny Sullivan. That, and an exposé from Buster Connolly from the _Boston Bugle_ —a listing of every corrupt cop, lawyer and government official that had been in Winter’s pocket and had worked to cover up the crime family’s business operations for years. More than that, it explicitly placed the blame of Jennifer Lands’ murder on the police—they had known about the holotapes and Eddie Winter’s recorded threats and had chosen to do nothing. Now, it was in the court’s hand. That was the good news. The bad news?

Eddie Winter had yet to show himself.

Madelyn stood on the courthouse steps, underneath the umbrella clasped in Deacon’s hand. Fitting, that on this day of reckoning, Mother Nature saw fit to bring down her wrath. Even though their partnership— _relationship_ —had been mended, he kept his hands from her—now was not the time to give Piper any ideas. Though, knowing the reporter and the way she continued to flash them curious expressions, her head was already full of them—but now was not the time.

“I know,” Madelyn responded, digging her hands deeper into her coat pockets, desperate to keep warm. She looked over to where Piper was staring down the gathering of newshounds, barricaded off in the plaza near the street. Together, they were all waiting on bated breath for news of an indictment.

“What if the jury’s been rigged?” she asked, twisting her umbrella in an anxious gesture. “Can we really trust these guys to get the job done?”

“You can’t trust everyone,” she replied, noting the small pull at Deacon’s lips. These were the same lawyers that had booted her from the District Attorney’s office, handing her off to Valentine’s Detective Agency because of her _fairer sex_ —but as far as Sullivan was convinced, they weren’t dirty—just jerks. “But there’s enough evidence that you’d have to be blind not to indict.”

Piper nodded, but her frown persisted. “Even with a grand jury indictment and arrest warrant in hand, Sullivan would still have to _find_ the bastard.”

“Speak of the devil,” Deacon mumbled, gesturing with his free hand towards the crowd.

Madelyn had barely registered his words over the media’s simultaneous excitement, voices yelling and cameras clicking as reporters clamored to get a clear photo of the newest arrival to the courthouse—Eddie Winter himself. Surrounded by four bodyguards and one well-dressed man that was obviously his lawyer, the mobster gradually made his way up the courthouse steps. He was wobbling ever-so-slightly, clearly still suffering from the gunshot wound she’d inflicted upon him just a week prior. As his entourage approached she reflexively bristled, biting her tongue in frustration at the fear that crept up her spine. Deacon gripped her elbow, touch softening to support her as Winter stopped to stand before her. The faded bruises on her neck burned under his evil stare.

“Miss Hardy,” he greeted.

She glanced to his side, stone-faced. “How’s the stomach?”

He let out a low growl, eyebrows knitted together in frustration. “I should ‘a killed you when I had the chance.”

“Likewise,” she replied. Deacon’s grip on her arm tightened, and while she appreciated the subtle show of his anger towards Winter’s threats, she could handle herself. If anything, she was emboldened. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face here. The minute that indictment comes down, you’ll find yourself in a pretty set of bracelets. I’ll give you a hint, they aren’t from _Tiffany’s_.”

“Oh, they’ll be no verdict today, sweetheart,” he grinned, his bodyguards instantly mimicking his amusement. “Not on my watch.”

“Don’t you know who I am?” he continued, laughing softly to himself. “I got the whole city in my pocket, the judge, the jury—don’t matter how many of my men you take out of the precinct, there’s always someone that gets left behind.”

Almost immediately, Piper’s hopeful expression dropped, though Deacon remained skeptical. Madelyn didn’t budge. She didn’t want to believe it—so she didn’t it. Eddie Winter was bluffing, and she knew it. This was just one last gamble, one last intimidation tactic against a foe he _thought_ he could outplay.

“Even now, I see my good friend the police commissioner coming down to give me the good news—”

Madelyn turned so she could keep him in her sights, glancing over her shoulder to spot not only the commissioner but Sergeant Sullivan and a few members of his task force following behind. Confusion muddled her mind—she had just read the commissioner’s name in Buster Connolly’s report the previous day. Only when she realized the commissioner was in handcuffs, head hung low as he was escorted to the patty wagon on the street.

Winter’s expression faltered. “The fuck—”

“As I was saying,” Madelyn continued, resisting the urge to smile at the obvious anxiety in his gestures.

Sergeant Sullivan and his officers soon surrounded Winter and his bodyguards, ensuring Madelyn and her colleagues were separated by the uniformed men. He pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket, handing it off to a detective with an umbrella to keep it dry.

“Edward Winter, this is a warrant for your arrest,” he explained, loud enough so that the reporters in the crowd could hear. “You are under arrest for first degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, racketeering, bribery, and fraud.”

He held up the metal handcuffs, and Madelyn had to give it to Danny for asking the dumbest, or bravest question to the mobster’s face. “Will you come with us quietly?”

Eddie Winter was defiant as ever. “The hell I will.”

He backed away, the bodyguards making a path for him on the stairs for a quick escape. As soon as he turned around, however, he froze, surprised by the sight of the man at the bottom of the courthouse steps.

“Nowhere to run, Winter.”

Nick Valentine—alive and vengeful as ever. Madelyn was alarmed to see him standing there—he should still be in the hospital, recovering from the gunshot wounds inflicted from Winter. Then again, it wasn’t surprising that Nick hauled himself to city hall after learning about the grand jury, taking a gamble that Winter would show himself to the world and he’d have the chance to face him down once again. Her biggest fear, however, was that his lust for revenge would cloud his mind and he’d forget that he couldn’t just _kill_ the man in broad daylight. Even if that man was Eddie Winter.

A stand off in the rain.

Nick slowly climbed the steps—steady and calm without a flicker of fear in his features. If anything, he was _smiling_ , bright green eyes shining as they remained locked on his prize. Winter, meanwhile was shaking, frantically turning one way or another as he looked for a way out. To both sides were officers and the media, and behind him was Sullivan, offering the shackles. As Nick said—there was nowhere to run.

A desperate man always made desperate actions.

In one swift motion, Winter pulled the .44 pistol from his jacket and arced it towards Nick, finger squeezed around the trigger.

The detective was faster.

A single gunshot echoed through the plaza, the noise amplified by the sound of scurrying feet as people simultaneously rushed to get away and come closer for a better look. In the chaos, Madelyn couldn’t see a thing, blinded by the flashing lights of camera bulbs. Deacon yanked her aside, holding her tightly—protectively—to his chest as he surveyed the crowd, waiting, listening for another gunshot. Sullivan’s officers tackled Winter’s bodyguards to the ground, he lawyer tripping down the stairs as he tried to escape. A minute—five minutes? Madelyn wasn’t sure how much time passed, but when the panic settled just enough, there was only one victim.

Eddie Winter’s body lay on the pavement, crumpled across the stone steps of the courthouse, motionless. Blood seeped out onto the cobblestone beneath him, swept away by downpour of rain. Sullivan was the first to move, kneeling down to check the man’s pulse—he shook his head, staring up at the group before glancing to Nick.

It was over.

Eddie Winter was dead.

Nick stood back, expressionless, and looked towards the statue of Lady Justice in the plaza. “Long time coming.”  
  


* * *

**  
April 22nd, 1958**

That rainy, Tuesday evening was the first time Madelyn had returned to the Valentine Detective Agency in over a week. The last time she had been in the offices had been before her and Nick made the fateful decision to go after Eddie Winter—back when their working relationship was as strong as ever, back when he hadn’t been shot—back when Jenny was still alive.

A lot could happen in ten days.

Ellie had kept the office open, mostly to field the incoming calls and solicitations from news agencies. The agency had seen a lot of foot traffic since word of Nick’s hospitalization and Jenny’s death got out—daily visitors stopping by with bouquets of flowers and sympathy cards—proof that the community he had served for so many years still supported him, and hadn’t forgotten about his plight. Even Vadim had shown up with a cask of freshly fermented moonshine, weeping endlessly into a delicately embroidered handkerchief until Yefim had to escort him back to the Dugout Inn.

That Tuesday, however, was quiet. Nick had returned to the office after the events at the courthouse and being cleared by the District Attorney, informing everyone that if they wanted to find him that’s where he’d be. While it was refreshing to know the agency wouldn’t be prosecuted for their involvement in stopping Eddie Winter, Nick’s behavior was troublesome. Madelyn knew better than anyone that he needed time to mourn—it was time to heal.

_Public Occurrences Special Edition—Winter vs. Valentine: A Detective’s Hunt for Cold Justice Finally Ends_

“Piper delivered it this afternoon,” Ellie explained with a grim smile. “Her proudest work yet. Produced in record time. _Limited copies_ , she said.”

“Piper thinks they might sell for a fortune one day,” Ellie softly laughed, rolling her eyes. “Wanted Nick to frame his copy, but…Here.”

Madelyn looked over the newspaper the blonde handed her. Apparently, the detective had other ideas, leaving the print with their receptionist so he wouldn’t have to look at the headline, or the perfectly timed photo of gunning Eddie Winter down on the courthouse steps.

“Will you talk to him?” Ellie asked next, in a whisper as she stole a quick glance to his office. “He needs a break. We all do.”

“Yes,” Madelyn answered, though she wasn’t sure how convincing she could be. She read over the newspaper again as she walked towards Nick’s ajar door.

Sure, Boston’s notorious crime-lord was dead, and his hold on the city was no more. The police corruption had been exposed and was painstakingly being cleaned up by Sergeant Danny Sullivan and his task force. Nick Valentine—in the public’s eye—the detective was a hero for putting Winter down once and for all. But at what cost?

Their so so-called victory felt hollow.

Madelyn loitered in the doorway of Nick’s office, unsure if she had the right to enter. She hadn’t spoken to him since visiting the hospital, the same day she told him Jenny was dead. He had understandably lashed out, placing the blame on her—she had done the same, and still held a considerable amount of regret—wondering if her past actions could’ve resulted in a different outcome. No amount of reassuring words from Piper, Deacon or any other person in her close knit-circle would convince her otherwise—not until she cleared the air with Nick himself. So, she lingered there, chewing at her bottom lip until it was raw, fumbling with the newspaper in her hands.

“Hey doll,” he spoke, not lifting his head from the mess of files and paper on his desk. “You going to stand there all day, or help an old man out?”

She hesitated, noticing the hint of sarcasm in his tone and the flash of a smirk that pulled at his lips. It harkened back to a familiar banter they used to share, but she was still uncertain. Slowly, she entered his office, eyeing the two armchairs but decided to stay standing before his large, oak desk. Nervously, she swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’re hardly an old man, Nick.”

He sighed, flicking his gaze up to her. His light green eyes were bloodshot, dark circles from an obvious lack of sleep. “I think I’ve added a decade or two in the last week,” he replied. “That or lost some off the back end.”

Madelyn didn’t know what else to say, “I’m sorry.”

Nick was quick to respond, shaking his head as he pushed himself up to stand. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“But I do,” she insisted, even as he rounded the desk to approach her. Before she could stop them, tears started flowing down her cheeks and she used a free hand to wipe at her eyes, ashamed for shedding them in front of him. “F—for _everything_. If I had just shot Winter—”

“ _Stop_ —”

Nick’s voice was more stern than she expected, one hand gripping her shoulder, the other gently petting at her hair as he angled her head back to look at him. She sniffled, struggling to keep her eyes locked on his.

“What’s done, is done,” he sighed. “If there’s anything that Jenny taught me, it’s to live life with no regrets. Even…” he took in a shaky breath and Madelyn saw the haze of tears in his eyes. “Even when you’d give your life to start over.”

Madelyn had similar sentiments—for a long time after Nate’s death, she’d had done anything to bring him back, even if it meant sacrificing her own life. A gamble with God in prayers, until she ultimately stopped praying altogether. This was a pain she never wanted to share, especially with Nick. He’d always supported her—been her closest friend—and now it was her chance to repay the kindness tenfold. But first—she needed to stop blaming herself.

Nick moved to wrap his arms around her in a tight hug, and Madelyn quickly returned the gesture, burying her face in his shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time, silently mending their bond while mourning their losses. Eventually, he pulled away, wiping at his face and offering a shaky smile.

“Whiskey?”

Madelyn breathed a laugh, swiping away the last of her tears. “God, _yes_.”

He nodded, breaking away to move back behind the desk so he could fetch the glasses from the drawers. Madelyn briefly considered stating it was a from-the-bottle kind of night, but held her tongue, finally deciding to take a seat in her favored armchair to the left. Nick poured much more than a regular serving for them both, circling back to hand her the glass before leaning against his desk. They raised their cups in a silent toast, unable to speak the name on both their minds— _for Jenny_.

It wasn’t the most content silence she had ever sat in, but the whiskey helped—a delightful burn as she drank the amber liquid in tiny sips, sighing as the alcohol helped numb the lingering pain in her heart and mind. The last few months had been a testament to her emotions, but she had come out on the other end—a brave new Madelyn, ready for anything life was ready to throw at her.

In the lobby, the chime of the front door rang out. Nick and Madelyn exchanged a look, both glancing to the clock on the wall— _midnight_ —before listening to Ellie’s cheery greeting. Madelyn was slightly surprised to find Deacon standing at the door to Nick’s office—last she understood, he was running a last-minute operation with Tinker Tom, and the only reason why he was absent from her side in the first place.

“Hey,” he greeted, not moving from the doorway. His hesitation to enter was understandable, considering his rocky relationship with the detective. If it wasn’t how they felt about Madelyn, it was now _Jenny_ —Nick had trusted Deacon to keep her safe—and he’d failed just as spectacularly as Madelyn had.

Evidentially, however, the detective decided not to hold a grudge. Nick nodded his head, silently beckoning him into the room. The Railroad agent sat in the opposite armchair, leaning forward instead of relaxing against the cushions.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” he started, before pulling a small notebook from his coat pocket. “But I figured you’d both be interested in seeing this.”

Madelyn was intrigued, shifting so she could take the papers from him when offered. “What is this?”

“Remember our first outing? The Switchboard?” he asked, holding back a grin. Fond memories, yes—but now was not the time to reminisce. “Tinkers’ has been hard at work decoding the files we recovered—this is just some of what he’s uncovered.”

She looked over the information, scribbled notes that were hard to read due to Tom’s messy handwriting, but one name stood out. _Shaun_. “Wait—that name—”

Madelyn passed the notebook to Nick, who took one large gulp of whiskey before setting his glass down. His eyes widened in realization. “The baby? Is this the same kid that was kidnapped in 1947?”

Deacon nodded. “Think so.”

“What is his name doing in Railroad intelligence files?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he answered with a shrug. “Tom is still working on deciphering the rest. It’s a slow process. Hell, it’s taken _months_ just to get this much. Could be a missing person’s list from ten years ago, for all we know. Or…”

Madelyn swallowed the lump in her throat. “You’d tell me if the Railroad had baby Shaun disappeared, right?”

It wasn’t exactly fair to put him on the spot—especially in front of Nick—but he surprised her with a swift answer, tilting his head just enough so she saw the flicker of his steely-blue eyes. “ _Yes_.”

“There’s another name here,” Nick tapped the paper, passing it back to Madelyn.

She squinted at Tom’s inked squiggles, mouthing the letters and words before landing on a name. “Preston? Preston Garvey.”

“Is that another missing person?” Deacon asked, looking to Nick, who shook his head. “A suspect then?”

“It’s a lead, if nothing,” she responded. A name could be anything. For all they knew, _Preston Garvey_ could be another sandwich shop, or a bowling alley…or a museum. Deacon shrugged. Amongst their exchange, Nick had been silent, rubbing at his chin in thought.

Madelyn glanced to her partner with a hopeful expression. “What are you thinking, Nick?”

The detective glanced over to the notebook in her hands, and slowly a smile pulled at his lips. “I’d say our cold case just heated up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that your Fifth Amendment Miranda Rights weren’t in effect in 1958? That’s why Sullivan doesn’t give them to Winter when he (tries to) arrest him! Research! 
> 
> This is the end of Act I! Eddie Winter’s hold on Boston may be over, but there are bigger players at work, lingering in the shadows. If you’ve been paying attention, they’ve been there all along. Little hints, here and there. 
> 
> Important note: Taking a week break between this update and start of Act II, so I can catch up a little with writing. See you on 6/23!
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	13. A Man of Integrity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Madelyn start their investigation on one of his oldest unsolved cases, reestablishing their bond as partners in the process. In Concord, they meet with Preston Garvey, who proves to be more help than they initially realized. After weeks of separation, Madelyn reunites with the Railroad, and with Deacon. A public demonstration at MIT sheds light on a new danger lurking in the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Sh-Boom_ \- The Crew Cuts

_“It’s quite alright, Mrs. Brent. I am a man of integrity, but I'm always willing to listen to an interesting offer.” -_ Albert Arnett as played by Walter Slezak _(Born to Kill,_ 1947 _)_

* * *

**  
May 11th, 1958**

What felt like an eternity had only been a few weeks for the Valentine Detective Agency. Nick and Madelyn hadn’t been doing a lot of field work, despite the reemergence of one of his oldest cases. They’d hunkered down in the agency, pouring over cold-case files and following up on decade-old leads while he recovered from the lingering injuries sustained at the hands of Eddie Winter. Even after being discharged from the hospital, Nick had a lot of healing to do. With time, the physical scars had begun to fade, but the mental trauma would last a lifetime.

Nick insisted the best thing for him to do was to stay busy, burying himself in what he knew best, lest he succumb to the darkness. Eddie Winter—his greatest and longest adversary was dead—but so was the love of his life. _Jenny_. Neither was something one got over so quickly, and Madelyn had first-hand experience in at least one aspect. She was determined to provide all the distractions he needed, even if it meant shirking her would-be responsibilities with the Railroad. Deacon covered for her as any great partner would, taking their separation in stride. He understood the relationship between Nick and herself was still rocky and required all the extra attention she could afford. Whatever spark they’d recently discovered would have to wait to be ignited.

Tinker Tom delivered more decoded transcripts as the weeks passed, either by dead-drop or handing them off to Drummer Boy for personal delivery at Madelyn’s apartment. The intel did little to fill in the blanks, and after weeks of digging and struggling to answer decade old questions, Nick and Madelyn were still at square one. A missing baby boy, and one name— _Preston Garvey_.

“Time to hit the pavement,” Nick declared that Sunday morning, with a certain kind of gumption Madelyn hadn’t heard since they went after Eddie Winter nearly a month ago. Even though there was so little to their casefile, they had to start _somewhere_ , and the detective was rearing to go.

With Piper’s help, they would divide and conquer—while Nick and Madelyn went to speak with the parents of the missing child, the reporter would use her resources to track down Preston Garvey, and hopefully confirm how he was tied to the case. The three of them working together again—just like old times—even if everything about their dynamic had changed.

Madelyn felt like a stranger sitting in the passenger seat of Nick’s Cadillac. Although they had made their amends after Jenny’s death and begun to settle back into their relationship as detective and lawyer— _partners_ —there was still an obvious strain that she couldn’t ignore. It was all business, devoid of all levity and humor. Understandable, considering he was still in mourning. Nick was hesitant to speak about his grief and put on a brave face for the sake of appearances, brushing off Madelyn’s emotional counsel. She hadn’t expected him to be just as stubborn as she was when it came to dealing with heartache. All she wanted was to support him in the same way he was there for her when she lost Nate all those years ago. If what he needed was time, then she could accommodate, even if it hurt her to see him in so much pain.

She busied herself by reviewing the tiny stack of paperwork in her lap, sifting through the dossier on the missing baby boy, Shaun. Madelyn had typed out the facts, pulling out bits of information from the various Railroad reports and news articles to establish a solid timeline of events, as well as name all involved parties. On October 23rd, 1947, just a month shy of his first birthday, he was kidnapped from his parents—a one Mr. and Mrs. Perlman. All the newspapers, media reports, and archived police casefiles indicated there were no witnesses. However, Tinker Tom’s transcripts suggested otherwise. The amount of times Preston Garvey was named and redacted certainly gave them a clue. 

When Madelyn opened her steno notepad, a postcard slipped out. On the front was a scenic photograph of Hershey Park, a familiar tiny paper ribbon taped to the back with a short, scribbled note:

_A chocolate would’ve melted –D_

“I wanted to apologize.”

Nick’s comment caught her off guard, and she quickly glanced over to study his profile. She was as startled as she was confused, unsure of what he had to be sorry for. He cleared his throat, green eyes dancing over to her for a moment before focusing on the road again.

“If it seems like I’ve been keeping you at a distance lately, it hasn’t been intentional,” he said carefully. “I’m not entirely sure what is normal anymore. How to act. How to have a civilized conversation or be _alive_ in a world without—” he broke off, hands gripping the steering wheel tight. “But I know you’ve been trying. Stuck around despite the doom and gloom. Don’t think it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

At a red light, Nick turned his full attention towards her, offering a tiny smile. “You’re a real gem, you know that, doll? One in a million.”

“I know,” Madelyn grinned, unable to resist the urge to lightly tease him in return. It was a gamble, but thankfully, he softly chuckled. She shrugged. “What are friends for?”

Nick side-eyed the documents in her lap. “Is that a message from…”

“Deacon?” she hesitated, knowing the two still had their differences. Just another reason why she’d asked the Railroad spy to keep his distance from the agency for a while. Since then, he’d been out of state on _classified business,_ sending correspondence through dead-drops whenever possible. When she didn’t answer right away, Nick let out a deep sigh.

“I’ve noticed _that_ too—you’ve kept him away to avoid conflict,” he pulled a hand away from the steering wheel to rub at his jaw. “Old shame the way I’ve acted, and maybe it’s time to let bygones be bygones. Wouldn’t want to come between the two of you.”

Something about his tone made Madelyn realize he’d made some astute observations about the pair—but when? Deacon had only visited once since Eddie Winter’s demise, so unless Nick could suddenly read minds or had become an expert on body language, he must’ve been talking to the neighborhood gossip— _Piper_. She’d certainly seen a lot of their interactions in the last month, enough to write an expose, if she wanted to.

Madelyn tried to stay coy. Afterall, she still wasn’t sure _what_ her relationship with Deacon was. As far as she knew, they were just partners. “It isn’t like that,” she denied, and the lie tasted foul on her tongue. “We’re…just friends.”

“What a shame,” Nick’s lips turned up into a sideways smile and she knew he’d read past her fib. He took a moment to study her hands, where she’d moved her wedding ring from her left finger to her right. He hadn’t mentioned it before, but she knew he’d noticed the moment she made the switch a few weeks ago. A monumental step, to declare herself a widow, indicating she might be ready to move on. 

“I could use some of that Hardy brightness, now more than ever,” he explained. She’d been considerably happier in recent months, even through the danger and traumatic events. It didn’t take a genius or _detective_ to say it was in no small part due to Deacon. “Don’t hold back on something good on account of me. Never hold back on happiness.”

When had Nick turned the tables on her? Wasn’t she supposed to be giving him heartfelt advice in his time of need? She allowed his words to sink in, reading over the handwriting on the postcard, tracing her fingers over the words. Regardless of how she truly felt, she wasn’t about to let herself get distracted when they had more important matters at hand. Still, it was comforting to know that Nick was on her side—another facet of their friendship and bond solidified.

She tucked the postcard safely away, and re-focused on her case notes. “You said you never worked with the parents directly in ’47?”

Nick shifted in the driver’s seat, thrown off by the change in subject. If he was offended, however, his expression didn’t show it. “No. I was a rookie P.I. back then, still wet behind the ears. Corruption aside, if you think Boston P.D. holds their cards close to the chest now, just think how paranoid they were ten years ago.”

“Worked as a consultant for just under a month,” he continued. “When the leads dried up, rather, when the police couldn’t provide me with any more valuable information, they cut me loose. Cut the parents loose too. Tried to reach out to them, but they’d disappeared after losing faith through a whirlwind media storm.”

“I don’t blame them,” Madelyn responded. She frowned at the date on the paper— _1947_. “Are you sure they’ll want to talk to us after all this time? We’re practically ambushing them.”

Nick slowed the speed of his Cadillac as he turned onto a private driveway, crossing over a wooden bridge, a large decorated sign in the nearby field indicating their arrival— _Sanctuary Hills_. Madelyn felt uneasy, and for good reason—she was familiar with the suburb, used to live down the street in a picturesque house in the middle of a cul-de-sac, and attended the Concord church in the town proper. Of course, that was when Nate was still alive, before she was forced to downsize and move to her tiny, Cambridge apartment.

“Are you alright?” Nick asked, reaching his hand over the center console to wrap around one of her own. While others would’ve flinched away, she took comfort in the cold touch of his prosthetic. Only then did she realize they were parked in front of a single-story home, painted a brilliant blue, with perfectly manicured lawns and a pearly white-picket fence.

She released a shaky breath. “I will be.”

Instead of waiting for Nick to round the car to open the passenger-side door for her, she exited the vehicle herself, gathering her purse and documents under her arm and stared at the residence ahead with a mix of insecurity and dread. Nick offered his arm, sensing her apprehension, and she gladly gripped his elbow as they followed the sidewalk path up to the front door. The detective did the honors in ringing the doorbell, and the pair waited, listening as a cheery female voice echoed out from within.

“ _I’ll be right there_!” 

Nick and Madelyn exchanged a quick glance before the door opened. With only an old, black and white newspaper clipping to go off of, Madelyn wasn’t sure what to expect when they arrived. But she was still surprised by the woman’s appearance, specifically, how young she looked. She couldn’t be any older than thirty, not a wrinkle in sight on her beautiful face, or a grey hair sprouting from her dark brunette waves.

The woman at the door flashed them a polite smile. “May I help you?”

Nick extended his good hand. “We don’t mean to intrude,” he started as she shook his hand, one eyebrow raised in mild suspicion. “I’m Nick Valentine, and this is my partner, Madelyn Hardy. We’re from the—”

“Detective agency?” she interrupted. To their surprise, her expression shifted, a smile pulling at her lips as she shook Nick’s hand in earnest.

“Uh— _yes_ ,” he answered, momentarily stunned. “Mrs. Perlman, I presume?” 

The woman nodded. “Please, call me Nora,” she opened the door further and stepped aside. “Do come in. I thought—” she stopped herself short, sucking in a breath and snapping a hand to her mouth as if to hold back a flood of emotions. Her courteous smile returned as she gestured them inside. “ _Please_. Make yourselves at home.”

Madelyn followed Nora through the foyer, pausing to watch as she collected Nick’s faded trench-coat and fedora to hang on the entrance-way rack. They continued through to the living room, and while Mrs. Perlman called for her husband, Madelyn took the time to scan the interior, taking in the furniture, decorations and personal memorabilia that made the place _home_. It was right out of the pages of _Good Housekeeping—_ the envy of any would-be housewife. Madelyn mentally chastised herself, knowing whatever jealousy she felt was misguided and inappropriate. She knew more than anyone that appearances were not meant to be taken at face value. Nothing, or nobody was ever as perfect as they seemed.

“Detective Valentine?”

Madelyn turned away from staring at a faded family portrait hanging on the wall to see Nora’s husband already in the middle of firm handshake with Nick. The man was tall, broad-shouldered—built like a soldier. His dark hair had been slicked back, and more than a few faded scars adorned his face and arms. It was reminiscent of the same marks her husband would return home with—such was the life of a military man.

“Mr. Perlman—”

He cut Nick off with a shake of his head. “ _Nathan_.”

Madelyn recoiled, but hid her reaction the best she could. It was only a name. Despite the first-glance similarities, this man was not her Nathaniel—not _her_ Nate. Nick glanced at her, acknowledging the coincidence, before continuing. They were there for a reason, and it wasn’t best to dawdle.

“I apologize if this seems out of the blue, after all these years,” the detective began. “I worked in liaison with the Boston P.D. in 1947. Wasn’t sure if they told you about my investigation into your son’s disappearance or not.”

“We weren’t aware,” Nathan clarified. Nora shook her head, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Not specifically.”

“We know of your work,” his wife interjected. “The only people brave enough to go after Eddie Winter,” she gave Nick an empathetic look. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife.”

He didn’t bother to correct her, jaw tightening as he nodded. Before the silence could stretch on for too long, Madelyn spoke up. “We’d like to reinvestigate your son’s disappearance—”

“ _Shaun_ ,” Nora interrupted again in a firm tone, all the while maintaining her composure. “He didn’t just disappear. He was taken from us.”

Madelyn didn’t take offense to the correction, understanding her grief. “We want to start the investigation into Shaun’s kidnapping anew,” she explained. “If you’ll allow us.”

The husband and wife were silent, exchanging anxious glances that spoke volumes. After a moment, Nathan motioned for the group to move into the living room proper, the couple sitting on the larger couch while Nick and Madelyn perched themselves on the opposite loveseat.

“Has there been a development we should know about?” Nora asked nervously. No doubt she’d been down this road before, full of hope, only to be let down time and time again. “The police haven’t spoken to us in _years_.”

Nick was straightforward. “Just rumors. Nothing concrete. But worth opening the casefile for, worth starting all over again.”

Another stretch of silence as Mr. and Mrs. Perlman contemplated the offer. Reopening decade old wounds without the guarantee that anything would come of it wasn’t an easy ask, wasn’t the best gamble. It involved a certain level of trust to be placed in the Valentine Detective agency—in both Nick and Madelyn. Two strangers that appeared out of the blue with nothing but speculation and a paper-thin casefile.

“We’d be grateful for your help,” Nathan finally answered for the pair. “It’ll be eleven years this October. It’s about time somebody gave a damn about finding Shaun.”

Nora acknowledged her approval with a small nod. “Whatever you need from us.”

“Do you mind if we ask you some questions about the day Shaun was taken?” Nick carefully asked.

Madelyn didn’t dare to reveal her notepad until the couple nodded, signifying they were willing and able to provide answers. Despite the facts they had gleamed from news and police reports, it was best to hear it straight from the victim, even after the lapse of time.

“October 23rd, 1947,” Nick started, reminding them all of the specific date. “Where were you?”

“Concord. Near Main Street,” Nathan answered. “We’d walked with Shaun’s stroller into the nearby park to see the Halloween decorations and look at the changing colors of the trees. Shaun wasn’t walking yet, but we let him crawl through some leaf piles while we watched.”

“Did you go anywhere else?” Nick asked.

Nora nodded. “We got lunch at the corner-side café near the church. We were thinking about taking Shaun to the museum, but…we didn’t get that far.”

Her husband wrapped a comforting arm around her back, encouraging her to rest her head against his shoulder. “It was broad daylight,” Nathan explained. “We were just walking up the main road when a man with a gun came out from the alleyway behind us. He grabbed me at first, held the gun to my head—”

He broke off, taking a moment to console his wife who had begun to softly cry. Nick, ever the gentleman, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her with a solemn expression. “We can stop, if you’d like.”

“No,” Nathan insisted, with a sigh. “If I’d been alone, I’d like to think I would’ve reacted differently. Military training—but Nora and Shaun, I couldn’t risk the two of them being injured—maybe that’s why he attacked. Saw a couple and a baby and thought we were vulnerable.”

“Can you describe the gunman?” Nick asked next.

Both Nathan and Nora shook their heads. “He was wearing a mask. But I saw his eyes—dark brown, filled with nothing but _evil_.”

Madelyn wrote down everything. “Did he say anything?”

“He—” Nora hesitated, wringing her hands. “He wanted us to beg for mercy.”

The tip of her pencil nearly snapped from the pressure as a similar, horrific memory came rushing back. Her and Nate, begging for their lives in Boston Common—coincidence, or…? Madelyn shut her eyes tight, pushing the thought away—there was no chance the same person who kidnapped baby Shaun was the same man who killed her husband. The crimes were too different, separated by too much time, and—

“…it didn’t matter in the end,” Nathan had been talking the entire time, and she’d tuned him out. She scrambled to catch up, scribbling down his words as he spoke. Nick had noticed Madelyn’s unease, flashing her a silent, knowing look. “The man shot me in the arm, and wrestled Shaun out of Nora’s arms.”

“After that, it was all a blur,” the wife described in a shaky voice. “Police, reporters. We told them everything we knew. They did the best they could—”

Nathan didn’t seem to agree. “They kept us in the dark.”

“It’s no wonder you’ve shown up after all these years,” he continued. “Maybe you can succeed where others have failed, Mr. Valentine. Offer us something the Boston police have never been able to give us.”

Nora grasped her husband’s hand in a tight grip. “Our _son_.”  
  


* * *

**  
May 12th, 1958**

Neither Madelyn or Nick expected the parents of the missing baby Shaun to be so forthcoming, especially after so many years. But Mr. and Mrs. Perlman— _Nathan and Nora_ —had welcomed the detective into their home, thankful that the agency was finally looking into the case. They had realistic expectations, understanding the investigation could very well end up in a dead-end, just as it had before. Nick was determined, however, a newfound fire surging through his veins at the prospect of solving a seemingly impossible case. He’d proved he could do it before with Eddie Winter, he’d be damned if he couldn’t do it again.

“Are we sure this is the place?” Madelyn looked up and down the sidewalks outside the Concord café, dubious of the location they’d been given.

Nearby, Nick flicked his cigarette to the ground, snubbing it out with the toe of his loafer. He grumbled beneath his breath. “This is what happens when we leave things up to Piper.”

The reporter had come to them the previous evening, stating she’d gotten lucky in her search for their supposed missing witness. _Preston Garvey_ —alive and well, and still living in Boston. Better yet, she’d tracked down his whereabouts and daily routine, giving them an exact location of where he could be expected to be found. It was only fitting that it was the same general location in which the crime occurred, though Madelyn was distracted by other memories. While Nick focused on studying the parameter, she stared at the church steeple—it was where she’d been married, and where she’d held Nate’s funeral services—the last time she’d stepped foot inside the sacred space.

“Hey doll,” Nick’s hand grasped her shoulder, pulling her back into the present. “You alright?”

She nodded, forcing a smile. “Right as rain.”

He didn’t believe her, she knew, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he silently led her through the café doors, the jingle of the bell signifying their entrance. The waitress behind the counter greeted them with a smile, but before she could move towards them with two menus, Nick raised his hand and gestured to the man sitting by himself in a back booth.

The man was dressed in a modern, relaxed suit—though, he wore a blue, woolen sweater instead of a jacket. On the table was a faded brown, trilby hat with an insignia that Madelyn didn’t recognize. He was engrossed with the newest edition of the _Boston Bugle_ , and didn’t notice their approach. Nick politely removed his fedora and cleared his throat.

“Mr. Garvey?”

He didn’t seem surprised by their arrival, calmly raising his gaze to look at them both. “Mr. Valentine? Miss Hardy?”

“That reporter—she works for, or with you?” he asked next, before either could respond. Seems that killing Eddie Winter brought nothing but notoriety to the agency, and perhaps some unwanted fame to for the pair. Couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized from the papers as the ones who brought the crime syndicate down. “She was following me around all day yesterday, didn’t do well enough to hide that she was. Figured I’d see the two of you soon enough.”

Nick softly chuckled, despite himself. “You’re very perceptive.”

“Have to be, now more than ever,” was the man’s response. He finally reached out to shake their hands. “For whatever reason, I’m the man you’re looking for. Please, call me Preston.” 

He gestured for the two to sit in the booth opposite of him, folding the paper so he could give them his full attention. Nick was never one to beat around the bush, so to speak, and got straight to the point.

“We’re looking into an old case, and your name came up as a potential witness,” he explained. “Shaun Perlman. Kidnapped in 1947, do you—”

“Yes,” Preston disrupted with a small frown. His eyes darted to stare out the picture window, out onto the calm town street. “Ten years, sure, but I remember. Was barely sixteen when it happened.”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised to hear he was that young, she hadn’t been any older when the abduction happened, a young newlywed trying to make her way while her husband was away at basic training. Preston looked at the two, obviously perplexed.

“Thought they’d found the kid,” he said, solemnly. “Didn’t realize that wasn’t the case.”

“Unfortunately not,” Nick answered with a sigh. “Seems like Boston P.D. couldn’t make heads or tails of the situation and ran out of leads.”

Preston shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Or maybe they’ve been corrupted longer than you realize.”

Nick had his own reasons for being wary of the Boston police system—hell, he was suspicious of the local government and had been for years. Still, he needed a little more than hearsay, especially from a stranger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know how you found my name,” Preston shook his head. “Back then, the police completely dismissed me as a witness. A young black kid? You really think they believed a word I had to say?”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t stop her from feeling upset. She and Nick had seen this type of behavior from certain precincts and officers over the years in other cases—it was easy to blame on incompetence and corruption, but in reality it was outright bigotry. Preston didn’t give them a chance to respond as he continued to speak.

“They didn’t talk to anybody. There were other witnesses, but good luck finding them now. Best I know, they’re either dead, or long gone from the area. The police made a show of it for the parents, but in reality they fumbled the case from the start,” he explained. “On purpose, if you ask me.”

Nick rubbed at his jaw, mulling the theory over in his head. “What would they have to gain from covering up the kidnapping of a baby?” 

“Maybe that’s the real mystery,” Preston answered. He looked outside again, focusing on the alleyway across the street. “Who would want to take a baby, anyways?”

Madelyn glanced over the notes she’d taken when speaking with the parents. “Can you tell us what you saw? What do you remember?”

“Everything,” he replied, quickly. He pointed to the sidewalk. “I was standing on the street corner when I heard the gunshot. There weren’t many people in the area, but they all scattered. When I turned around, a man cradling a crying baby was running towards me and I just _knew_ there was something wrong about him by his expression—”

“He wasn’t wearing a mask?” Nick interrupted, alarmed.

Preston shook his head. “No. But what kind of parent is walking around Concord with a holstered pistol?”

“What did he look like?” Madelyn prompted, waiting to fill in the details in her notepad.

“Tall and bulky,” Preston shut his eyes, recalling the image. “He was wearing a black leather jacket and combat boots. Maybe he worked on the military base? Had a…shaved head and this jagged scar over his—”

“Left eye?” she interrupted, all the air sucked from her lungs. Even Nick looked shellshocked.

As soon as Preston nodded, she felt bile tickle at her throat and didn’t have time to excuse herself before she pushed herself out of the booth and ran out of the café and onto the sidewalk, heaving in the fresh air so she wouldn’t vomit into the street. This wasn’t a coincidence, and the thought she’d dismissed the previous day had suddenly been confirmed. The same man who’d kidnapped baby Shaun was the same man who’d murdered Nate. A million questions flooded her mind—was it a case of mistaken identity, separated by nearly a decade? Had he tracked Nate and her down thinking they were the parents?

Madelyn didn’t know how long she’d been outside, aimlessly pacing when two hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug. Nick hushed her as she initially tried to push him away—she wasn’t even crying, she hardly needed consoling—or maybe she did. Her heart was racing, hands trembling so fast she was sure she was going to collapse. Better that Nick keep her upright until she could stand on her own. He didn’t say anything—not that he needed to—he knew everything about Nate’s murder, and why she reacted the way she did. If anything, he was filtering through the thousands of theories in his mind, struggling to come up with a logical reason as to _why_ the crimes were related.

Their witness, Preston, had followed them outside, and judging by his sympathetic expression, Nick had informed him of her connection to case. If it had been any other person, at any other time, she would’ve been upset—her folly for being unable to stay composed when in the field. And here she thought _Nick_ would be the one struggling.

“Listen,” Preston interrupted the silence, anxiously shuffling his feet. “I want to help. With your case and…anything else you might need.”

Madelyn and Nick had shared a skeptical look. They’d been sold a similar story before, though that was from a very _different_ kind of character—a young mercenary with more trouble than they could handle. The detective eyed him. “We already have informants.”

Preston smirked, shaking his head. “Do I look like a spy?”

“After the kidnapping, a local neighborhood watch started up. It was rough going, getting enough people to join, and over the years our numbers have dwindled thanks to the crime families taking over,” he told. “Hollis, our leader passed away in ’49 and I’ve been the de-facto leader ever since.”

“How can you help?” Madelyn asked, meaning well.

“We’re a network,” he replied. “Not just in Concord. Lexington, Charlestown…used to be in Quincy before the Gunners took over, but that’s another story. We see a lot, without being seen. There to help and protect the people at a minute’s notice.”

Sounded not unlike a spy network she was familiar with. Made her wonder if they were familiar with one another or had crossed paths. Instead of questioning it now, she silently deferred to Nick. His quiet amusement told her he was impressed.

“What do you call yourselves?” he asked.

Preston grinned. “The Minutemen.”  
  


* * *

**  
May 14th, 1958**

Madelyn stared up at the lantern perched high upon the Old North Church steeple, the burning flame shining bright against the dark evening sky. She was still unsure if making the trip to North End was the wisest decision and had only made the late-night visit at Nick’s insistence. Ever since their meeting with the Perlman’s, followed by Preston in Concord, he’d noticed her melancholy and overall listlessness. Where he was gaining a fresh strength and passion in the reopened cold case, Madelyn was fading away. Present, but only in the physical sense. After a long day in the office, he sent her to the church with the hopes a break from her usual routine would return the pep to her step. Her partner’s advice was right—he usually was. Plus, it was time to pick up the latest intel report from Tinker Tom—why not do it in person?

Surprisingly, the Railroad headquarters was sparse of agents. Drummer Boy was absent from his usual spot by the entrance way, likely making the rounds through the city, collecting dead-drops. Doctor Carrington was also missing from his corner, but she could hardly guess what kind of mission he could be on. In the far corner, she noticed Tinker Tom was tapping away at a typewriter, a pile of yellow holotape cartridges on the desk next to him. Nearby, Glory was reading through a stack of intel, pausing every few lines to notate the papers with a fountain pen. One person’s absence was more obvious than the others, though Madelyn tried to keep her disappointment hidden as she walked by the repurposed catacombs, keeping her gaze focused forward.

Desdemona didn’t bother looking up from the spread of information on the circular dais when she approached. “Stranger.”

“A new codename?” Madelyn dared to joke. If Deacon were there, _he’d_ laugh. She glanced over her shoulder just to double check one last time.

“Might as well be,” the Railroad leader answered with a heavy sigh. “I won’t lie to you. Your absence has been felt. We’re stretched thin as it is, and with Deacon no-contact while he’s out of state…”

Madelyn did her best to not let her expression betray the truth—that was news to her—she’d been receiving notes from the Railroad spy for weeks. He hadn’t been overly discreet about it either, using Drummer Boy as a go-between when other dead-drops were unavailable. Made her wonder if there was more truth to the story about who _really_ ran the show, as the two liked to hint.

“Still,” Desdemona continued, waving her hand aside as she flicked her cigarette. “What you and Valentine have done for this city is remarkable.”

“Hopefully we managed to kill a few birds with one stone,” Madelyn replied. “It wasn’t just Eddie Winter. But maybe now, there will be less threats knocking at our door.”

“If only we could be so lucky,” was Desdemona’s response. She inhaled deeply on her smoke, turning away to exhale the white-grey plume. “Speak to Tom and Glory. They’ve found something that may be of interest. I’m curious to know if you’ve had similar discoveries in your investigation of Winter or the Boston P.D.”

With a nod, Madelyn stepped over to Tinker Tom’s workspace, curiously looking over the array of empty coffee cups and gizmos as he continued to type and mumble to himself. It took just over a minute for him to realize she was standing patiently at his side.

“Oh, _oh!_ ” he exclaimed, jolting up to stand before sitting down again. He flashed a bright smile at her as he dragged a nearby chair closer for her to sit. “Agent Charmer! For what do I have the pleasure?”

“I see you’ve been hard at work. Thank you again for all the intel you’ve provided to the agency,” Madelyn responded. “It’s been a tremendous help in developing leads for our case. I haven’t seen Nick so invested in…a long while.”

“Alright, alright!” Tom nodded along enthusiastically. “I’ve been hitting the numbers. Err— _words_. Intel. Lots of information to swim through, gotta pretend I’m a little fish. Swimmin’ along in a sea of—”

Glory loudly cleared her throat from her spot at the nearby desk, prompting Tom to falter but continue smiling. “ _Right_ —so, you know what keeps coming up in these data files? The college! _MIT_ —Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Good thing I can read binary, like _hello_ zero, one, zero, zero, one, one, zero, one—”

“ _Tom_!” Glory cut him short, with a short laugh of disbelief.

Madelyn furrowed her brows together, not even trying to make sense of the scribbles of notes he handed over. It sounded like another one of Tom’s wild theories, or a red herring. The more she stared at his handwriting— _MIT_ scrawled repeatedly over the various pages—something clicked in her mind.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen them mentioned in some kind of report,” she explained, catching Glory’s attention. “Donations to Mayor McDonough’s campaign, some of Winter’s men were graduates. A lot of the government officials have ties to the college.” Madelyn paused. “Didn’t you have a theory about them secretly terraforming the Commonwealth?”

Tom leaned forward, transfixed. “Did I? I _did_!”

“Aren’t you an intern?” Madelyn asked Glory, switching her attention to the Railroad heavy.

“Never officially was,” the other woman shrugged. “My position has changed after my cover was nearly blown. Wish I could say there was somebody on the inside, but right now, we’re walking blind.”

“ _Swimming_ ,” Tom corrected, much to Glory’s chagrin. 

Desdemona stepped over to where the group was congregated. “There’s going to be a public demonstration at the MIT campus tomorrow morning. Glory can’t risk being spotted again, and our other agents are in the field. You are the perfect fit to blend in with the crowd and media presence.”

Madelyn refrained from asking about her _partner_. If Desdemona said Deacon was unavailable, she would need to let it be. No need to sound desperate, or make their relationship appear more suspiciously close than it already was. She thought back to Nick’s original goal for her when he encouraged her to the Railroad headquarters that evening. If anything, accepting a new _solo_ assignment was just the distraction she needed.

“I’ll be there.”

An hour later, and with a new stack of transcribed reports in hand, Madelyn slowly walked through the catacomb tunnels the same way she entered, listening to the sound of her heels as they echoed off the concrete floors. Her first few visits had left her unnerved by the entombed dead and darkened halls, but all these months later she found a serenity to it all, like there wasn’t a safer place in the world. Ironic, considering she’d once vowed to never step foot in a church again. She took her time walking up the basement steps, pausing in the small, ruined hallway that led towards the damaged pews. For a moment, she considered staying to pray.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

Whatever shock she felt quickly melted away into relief as she spun around to find Deacon leaning against a nearby pillar, arms crossed over his jacket as he flashed her a sideways smirk. For all the time apart he looked the same as always, sporting his signature black styled wig and reflective sunglasses. He wouldn’t be _Deacon_ without them.

She stole Desdemona’s line. “Stranger.”

“Didn’t your parents ever warn you about _stranger danger_?” he joked in return, pushing himself upright.

“Who doesn’t like a little danger now and again?” Madelyn shrugged, unable to hide her amusement.

She’d missed their teasing—just on the verge of flirting—a banter they’d been proficient in since their first meeting. It was refreshing to know that even after all the trials they’d been through together, their relationship— _whatever_ it was—had survived. If anything, it had flourished. He smiled at her, sharing in her quiet joy. _God_ —she’s missed him.

“Good thing I’ve got enough to spread a lifetime,” he softly chuckled, finally moving over to where she stood. “Does that mean you like me more, or less?”

Madelyn laughed—not like he couldn’t know by now. “I’m not _that_ easy.” 

“ _Shucks_.”

Despite her words, she couldn’t help herself from reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck and shoulders, pressing up on her toes to reach his height the best she could. Deacon leaned to reciprocate the hug, arms tight around her waist as he brought her close against his chest. She couldn’t put into words how wonderful it was to be reunited—to be _held_ —so she remained silent, face buried in the curve of his shoulder. He rested his chin atop her head, nuzzling his cheek against her soft golden curls. It was rare to allow themselves a such a reprieve, to get caught up in a tender moment so much so that the rest of the world fell away. A moment of escapism was what they both needed—they needed _each other_ —even if that had yet to be said.

“Come on,” Deacon pulled away first, lowering her so both heeled feet were level with the ground. She could tell he was studying her face, beyond the darkened frames, and wondered what he was thinking. His hand sought hers out, holding it in a loose grip as he motioned for her to follow. “Let’s get you home.”

“Inviting yourself over?” she teased as they walked through the church.

Deacon smirked, raising his eyebrows high. “Drummer Boy told me you’ve been having him over for dinner while I’ve been away,” he mocked offense, flashing an over dramatic pout. “Feeding him pot-roast and other _All-American_ housewife recipes.”

She giggled at his theatrics as they stepped out into the crisp, evening night. “You only want me for my food!”

“You first,” Deacon replied, nonchalant in his confession—if it even were one. “Food later.” 

Whatever snarky response she expected, it wasn’t _that_. Momentarily stunned, she felt the heat rising up her neck and cheeks. Instead of fumbling through a less-than cheeky reply, she flashed him a wink, earning her a low whistle. Madelyn was glad she’d gone to North End that evening, laughing as she squeezed his hand, thinking—she hoped he liked meatloaf.  
  


* * *

**  
May 15th, 1958**   
  


The Massachusetts Institute of Technology campuses were a short walk from Madelyn’s Cambridge apartments, making the trip to the Thursday morning press conference a breeze. As soon as Deacon caught wind of her assignment from Desdemona he decided to tag along, and she welcomed his company. Even though the job required little intrigue, it had everything to do with blending into a crowd unseen—something he was an expert at.

By the time they arrived at the waterfront campus, a large gathering of people were already seated in rows before a large, temporary stage. A podium had been set up, as well as curtains to disguise whatever the presentation was to be about. At the front of the crowd was a grouping of media and news reporters—at least one of them had a camera to record the event, likely for that evening’s broadcast.

Madelyn and Deacon remained on the outskirts, close enough that they could see the stage and hear the announcements, but far enough away that they could survey the attendees for anybody suspicious. She scanned the throng of people, but as far as she could tell, they all appeared to be the typical Bostonian resident.

“Look,” Deacon didn’t point, placing his hand on the low of her back to gently guide her body towards the promenade. “See anybody familiar?”

She leaned into his embrace for show, glancing over at the courtyard. It was hard to see through her sunglasses, making her wonder how the hell Deacon managed to get any espionage work done when wearing a pair all hours of the day. With a little squint, however, she realized—she’d seen the man before.

“The man in black,” Madelyn answered, thinking back to their first escapade in downtown Boston through the underground tunnels and the Switchboard. It was the same well-dressed man who’d nearly cornered them in the Slocum’s Joe, she was sure of it. So was Deacon, apparently. “Has he seen us?”

“Hard to say,” he mumbled in reply, scratching at his temple as if he was contemplating removing his pompadour wig. Maybe he’d be less likely to be recognized with ginger hair—or maybe he’d stick out like a sore thumb. Before either of them could say anything else, fanfare from the stage caught their attention and the audience stood in applause. Deacon took the opportunity to move them closer, out of view from where their former _stalker_ was on watch.

“Good morning Boston!”

Madelyn shouldn’t have been surprised to see Mayor McDonough addressing the crowd, a jovial expression adorning his face as he waved to reporters and shook hands with the college delegates on stage.

“Thank you all so much for attending,” his voice echoed out as he stood at the podium, speaking into the array of microphones. “This is sure to be a momentous occasion for Boston’s most prestigious of universities. Without further ado, let me introduce to you the head of the Robotics division, Doctor Justin Ayo.”

Deacon and Madelyn politely added their applause to the cheers of the crowd as a new man approached the podium, thanking the mayor before addressing the audience.

“We’ve all heard of the technological marvels of General Atomics and RobCo Industries but even these corporate giants have their limitations,” the professor explained. “What if I told you it was possible to _merge_ science and humanity together to create something the likes have never been seen before?”

Doctor Ayo paused, perhaps for dramatic effect. “Here at MIT, we’ve managed to combine the mechanical with the biological to create the first of its kind. I give you, _the android_.”

From behind the curtain, something moved—the metal frame of what looked like the hybrid of a skeleton and machine. It was walking, baby-steps across the stage, and something about the movements sent a shiver down Madelyn’s spine.

“Is that a robot?” Madelyn asked in a hushed whisper to Deacon.

He shook his head, lips pulled tight in a thin line. “Doesn’t look like any protectron I’ve ever seen.”

“These marvelous beings have been created with fully functional artificial intelligence,” Doctor Ayo continued, to the shock and whispered gasps of the crowd. “This is _not_ your ordinary Mister Handy—each synthetic human—or _synth_ —as we like to call them has a distinct personality.”

“Why, in a few years and with further research and development, they may not be able to be distinguishable from you or I.”

“That’s…” Deacon’s jaw clenched. “ _Fuck_.”

A commotion erupted from the group of newshounds and Madelyn recognized the bright red press-cap, even from the distance she was standing. Of course Piper would be at the gathering, there to gather information for a scathing article for _Public Occurrences_. She raised her voice high above the other shouting reporters, clamoring for attention.

“What safeguards are in place to prevent the synths from malfunctioning? Do they have free will? What if they chose to attack? What are your plans _exactly_ with these androids?”

Doctor Ayo was defiant in the face of her flurry of questioning. “I didn’t realize we’d started the Q and A session already.”

“Miss Wright!” Mayor McDonough came forth again, publicly reprimanding her. “That’s enough out of you!”

Another man stepped to the front of the stage, causing a hush to fall across the plaza. An older, studious looking man—silvery grey hair and groomed beard, in an expensive suit befitting of a college administrator. Whoever he was, his presence demanded silence and attention.

Madelyn shot a confused look at Deacon. “Who is that?”

“MIT’s Director,” he answered with a slow shake of his head. “Surprised he’s even here. Not known for public appearances.”

“Such paranoia,” the director spoke, in a calming voice. His hand landed on the mayor’s shoulder and quickly, McDonough’s expression seemed to calm. “Everything will be alright.”

Oddly, _eerily_ , Mayor McDonough repeated the words into the microphones. “Everything will be alright.”

Even though the majority of the spectators were calmed by the Dean’s words, Madelyn wasn’t. Everything wasn’t _okay_. With the presence of their new invention, it was anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act II, begin! I put in a sprinkle of easter eggs for readers to find! 
> 
> I may alternate between posting on Thursdays and Tuesdays, depending on how far ahead I get in my writing. Either way, you can expect weekly updates from here until the very end! Six thrilling chapters to go! Oh when will our romantic leads finally kiss? 
> 
> PS: Happy birthday, Robert House, you corporate bastard! 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	14. An Abominable Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Valentine Detective Agency, the group reconvenes to discuss MIT’s revelations to the public. With more questions than answers, it’s up to Piper to follow the trail while Nick continues the cold case investigation. After reliving a past trauma, Madelyn takes comfort in the distractions Deacon provides. Later, Nick and Madelyn follow a clue straight to the man they’ve been hunting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _I Only Have Eyes for You_ —The Flamingos

_“He was an abominable man. Why do women marry abominable men?” -_ Charlotte Inwood as played by Marlene Dietrich _(Stage Fright,_ 1950 _)_

* * *

**  
May 16th, 1958**

_Man or Machine? –The Synthetic Truth Behind MIT_

The newest copy _Publick Occurrences_ was waiting on Ellie’s desk when Madelyn arrived at the agency early that Friday morning, the stack of newspapers fresh off the presses and ready for circulation. Piper certainly didn’t dawdle after attending the MIT demonstration—she knew how to strike when the iron was hot and get a story out in record time. But Piper was never one to procrastinate—if you gave her and inch, she’d run a mile. Madelyn was interested to see what kind of marathon the reporter would run _this_ time.

“What do we _really_ know about MIT?”

Piper’s question hung in the air of Nick’s office as she paced before his desk, arms crossed with a steely expression. The detective himself was still reading over that morning’s edition, already on his second smoke of the day—nobody dared to reprimand him for getting such an early start, not when he was still within his grieving period. Madelyn watched the newshound’s movements from her usual spot in the armchair to the left, wondering if Piper’s eyebrows furrowed any further they might mold together into one, brown, bushy line. She hid her amusement behind her hand, glancing back to where Deacon was leaning against the back wall, holding a relaxed smirk as he silently observed the room’s occupants from behind his tinted shades. Even though the chair next to her was empty, she knew he was more comfortable where he stood, still cautious about being invited back into the fray of agency life.

“You’re worried about…” Nick looked up from reading the _Publick Occurrences_ article. “A robot?”

Piper balked in offence, abruptly stopping in her strides to face him. “Jesus, Nick, did you lose track of your reading comprehension skills or something?”

“Not a robot,” she corrected, waving her hands in dramatic fashion as Nick frowned at her intended insult. “An android. A _synth_. MIT have essentially built themselves an infiltration unit—”

“We don’t know that,” Nick interrupted with a grumble.

“They installed it with a distinct personality,” Piper explained, gesturing to the black and white photo of the mechanical _man_ that had been presented the previous day. “The Doctor said it himself. Makes it so they are indistinguishable from you or I.”

Nick rubbed at his chin as he studied the snapshot before pulling away to stare at his prosthetic hand—built by the very scientists Piper was questioning. He clenched his fingers into a fist and sighed. “I’d like to think I’d be able to tell that _thing_ from a human,” he muttered, extinguishing his cigarette. He refrained from igniting a third from his nearby pack. “Looks fairly metal to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Piper argued. She pivoted, gesturing towards Madelyn and Deacon. “You were there! You saw how it moved.”

“Yes,” Madelyn agreed with a short nod, though she had her own hesitations. Despite the suspicion raised at the demonstration, she wasn’t one to jump to conclusions without solid proof in hand. “Doctor Ayo suggested it would be years before the synth could actually look anything like a human.”

“Can we actually trust the scientists and researchers at MIT?” Piper countered.

This wasn’t her usual wild goose-chase or paranoia fueling her, but genuine fear and concern. A kind of worry that Madelyn hadn’t seen in her friend since they started investigating Eddie Winter’s rise as family crime boss and his rampant spree through Boston. But this wasn’t some mobster they were after, this was the Massachusetts Institute of Technology—a revered university that had always played a pivotal role in the city’s development of modern science. Without the Institute—as some affectionately called the college—Boston would still be in the dark ages. Like any industry giant, however, so much of what the Institute accomplished was shrouded in mystery. From their elusive board of directors, to their once-in-a-blue-moon presentations—it was any wonder Piper was suspicious.

“The way that doctor spoke,” Piper continued, a little calmer than before. “There’s the implication they’ve built more than one, and they’re just itching to put them to use. If they haven’t already.”

She picked up a spare copy of _Publick Occurrences_ from Nick’s desk and stared at her own headline. “It bears repeating. What do we really know about the Institute?”

Silence settled within the room as the group contemplated what Piper said.

“She’s right.”

Madelyn peered over at Deacon, who barely moved from his spot against the wall. He offered a small shrug as he repeated his words. “She’s right,” he spoke, much to Piper’s surprise. “What _do_ we know?”

“You’ve covered them before, right?” he asked, continuing his train of thought. “Something about the mayor’s campaign funds?”

The journalist raised a curious eyebrow in his direction. “Didn’t realize you were such an avid reader of my publication.”

“I like to stay informed,” Deacon replied, cheekily. “Freedom of the press, and all that.”

“They’ve shown up in Railroad reports as well,” Madelyn added, keeping the conversation on point. It certainly caught Piper _and_ Nick’s attention. Deacon, however, seemed less than enthused about her sharing insider knowledge. But the information was out in the open now, ripe for dissection.

“Seems suspicious— _promising_ ,” Piper said with a curious smile. She glanced to Deacon. “For an undercover organization, can’t you find out more? Send one of your _agents_ to snoop around the university for secrets? Sneak around yourself, _Mr. Spy_?”

“You make it sound so easy,” he responded with a smirk, though Madelyn could tell Piper’s tone was getting on his nerves. “Why don’t _you_ go stalk the boogeyman, _Miss Wright_?”

“Maybe I will!”

“For once I’d like to have a civil conversation in my office,” Nick interrupted, already striking a new match to light another cigarette.

Madelyn could only imagine the amount of stress he was experiencing, and their presence wasn’t helping. She glanced at the others. “We might as well start from the beginning. What else do we know about the university? Media reports, rumors…anything?” 

“There was an attack in 1955 at University Point,” Deacon recalled. “A fight broke out between some Mass Bay and MIT students over some supposedly stolen tech. One of the MIT kids lost control and beat a Mass Bay freshman to a bloody pulp.”

“I wrote about that too,” Piper remarked. “The student died. Didn’t think it was anything but a student brawl gone bad. Seen plenty of those covering the Fens district. What does that have to with what they’re doing now?”

“You’re the one who’s suggesting they’ve been using synths longer than they claim,” Deacon explained. “I’m just trying to offer evidence that supports your theory, is all.”

“That would mean…” Madelyn trailed, alarmed by the connotation. She furrowed her brows, unable to wrap her head around what was being suggested. She wasn’t about to _trust_ what the Institute scientists had claimed at the demonstration—that they were years away from life-like synths— but she needed more proof than one incident that sounded more like a disagreement gone awry. “Is there anything else?”

“1949,” Nick spoke, gaining everyone’s interest. “I had just set up the agency here. Vadim told me about an Italian restaurant across the way from the stadium, praised their homemade pasta,” he leaned back in his chair, clearly reminiscing on nearly a decade’s old memory. “Before I could make a visit, the place was shut down. Turns out a professor, Mr. Carter, from MIT decided it was the perfect place to commit mass murder.”

“I remember that restaurant, but I’ve never heard about _that_!” Piper seemed genuinely shocked, especially as someone who had lived in the Boston area all her life. “What happened?”

“Seemed like any other patron at first, according to witnesses. Sat at the bar and told war stories, spoke about a big government grant his department had just been given. Then suddenly—” Nick snapped his fingers, his expression solemn as he explained. “Pulled out a revolver and started shooting. After an hour-long stand-off, Boston P.D. opened fire and put him down. When the dust settled, eight people were dead, including the professor.”

Madelyn pointed out what she hoped would be obvious. “If Mr. Carter were a synth, you’d think they’d be able to determine that after his death.”

“Assuming there wasn’t a cover-up,” Nick offered with a shake of his head. “The event itself was conveniently swept away in the news-cycles. Between the Red Scare in Hollywood and some ape dying in space—”

“Poor Albert,” Deacon quipped. Madelyn resisted the urge to laugh amidst their serious discussion and looked his way. He only smiled.

Nick cleared his throat, pulling their attention back. “As I was _saying_ ,” he tapped his fingers against the newspaper spread across his desk. “That’s two instances of MIT personnel losing themselves to madness. Piper, you’re the one who is worried about synths going unchecked. Malfunctioning and attacking without provocation. I’m all for throwing accusations against a reputable establishment when something smells rotten, but you need to be sure before going after something, or someone as big as the Institute.”

He was right, even as he inferred he believed Piper’s theories. Madelyn thought about what the group had discussed, and what she’d seen at the MIT conference the previous day. To think that the university had lied and had secretly placed realistic synths—indistinguishable from _real_ humans—in the Boston populace. Worse yet, they had been doing so for years. Confusion settled in her mind—why? Why come forward now with the revelation of a new prototype if they’d been infiltrating the city all this time? It wouldn’t be the first time she dealt with a corruption scandal. What did the university have to gain from planting sleeper agents— _synths_ —throughout Boston in the first place? She only ended up with more questions than answers.

Piper seemed to share a similar sentiment, a worrisome frown etched into her features. “I’ll hit the streets, connect with some sources,” she paused, giving Nick a cautious glance. “I know you still don’t trust him, but ol’ Danny Sullivan might be my best shot at getting any information from old police files,” she rolled her eyes when he groaned. “Or would you rather I break into precincts, for old time sakes?”

“Do what you will,” Nick sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Just leave us out of it for the time being,” he motioned towards Madelyn. “We’ve got enough on our hands with this cold case.”

Not that Piper needed his permission to follow her own leads for a story, but it was nice to have the support of a friend—the three had been working together for a few years now, and despite her reputation, she wasn’t one to run off and go rogue. Especially when it could put herself, or others, in danger. Considering they’d just come off from putting an end to Eddie Winter and his wide-spread corruption, she needed to tread lightly—well, as lightly as Piper was capable of. With a shrug, she moved to occupy the opposite armchair, sinking back into the cushions.

“Do you think any of this is connected to the Shaun Perlman case at all?” Madelyn decided to ask, gauging Nick’s reaction.

“I’d rather not cross that bridge right now,” he mumbled, dragging his palm across his face in exasperation. He shot a warning glance to Piper before she could get started. “Better we focus on the best lead we have—the kidnapper, and the fact he very well may be the same man who killed Madelyn’s husband.”

It felt like the air was sucked out of the room as she sensed all eyes focus on where she was sitting. She hadn’t expected Nick to be so upfront about sharing the information, but they were amongst trusted colleagues—anyone else and she likely would’ve had a more hostile reaction. That being said, she hadn’t divulged any case details to Deacon, and she his subtle reaction to the news didn’t go unnoticed out of the corner of her eye. Her secrecy wasn’t to be deceptive, but rather to protect her emotions. Madelyn was still struggling with the reality of the situation, and it took all the mental fortitude she had left to focus on helping to solve the case. 

“What are you talking about?” Piper asked, looking between her and Nick.

“Preston, our witness from Concord. His description of the kidnapper…” he trailed.

“That wasn’t all,” Madelyn reluctantly added. “The way the wife, Nora…the way she described the kidnapping. It was all too familiar,” she swallowed down the nervous flutter rising in her throat and steadied her breathing the best she could. “From being ambushed in a public setting, to the way he made them— _us_ —beg for our lives.”

“You don’t have to—” Nick tried to interrupt but she hushed him with one steely look.

“He was wearing a military fatigue and a leather jacket. His head was shaved, and there was a long scar that crossed over his left eye—just as Preston described,” Madelyn continued. “His gun wasn’t military issue, that much I know. Had to be modified, on account of the—” she broke off as the tears prickled her vision. Deacon shifted from his spot against the back wall, but she shook her head, silently rooting him to the spot.

“The coroner pulled a .44 hollow point from Nate’s chest,” she stated, biting back the overwhelming desire to cry. She lowered her gaze, focusing on the wedding ring she’d moved to her right hand. “Same kind they pulled from…” she found herself unable to say the husband’s name.

Nick took note of her struggle and interjected. “Mr. Perlman’s arm.”

Piper loudly clapped her hands together, causing Madelyn to flinch at the sound. She didn’t pause to apologize before she was bent forward and speeding through another tangent. “That weapon! A .44 caliber with hollow point bullets? I’ve read about several unsolved murders up and down the Eastern coastline with that _modus operandi_.”

“We can’t say that every shooting with a magnum was _him_ , can we?” Madelyn asked, focusing her attention on Nick. He was smoking again, but she’d lost track of what number he was on.

“No,” he mumbled, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he maneuvered the paperwork strewn about his desk, pulling out a tattered notebook. She wasn’t sure what he was looking at when he started reading. “1950—robbery outside the Boylston Club. Two injured, one dead, with— _wouldn’t you know_ —a .44 hollow point bullet to the head.”

Madelyn grimaced, trying not to imagine what that would’ve looked like for the victim—perhaps Nate had it easier, even if he had a slow, and painful death.

“There was a suspect,” Nick read on, flipping though an old casefile. “Released on a technicality, but we all know by now that is code for _corruption_. Disappeared after that. No trace.”

“How much do you want to bet it’s our guy?” Piper asked to nobody in particular.

“Five bucks says it was Kellogg!”

Everybody in the room turned towards the new presence in the doorway—MacCready, who stared back with equal surprise. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop or nothin’ but…” he jutted his thumb over his shoulder towards the lobby. “That blonde chick wasn’t around to shoo me away, so I thought I’d—”

“Who the hell is _Kellogg_?” Nick stopped him from rambling.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” MacCready stepped into the office and shrugged. “Way you described him and that gun, only one person I know that fits the bill,” he said. “Conrad Kellogg.”

“Who is he?” Piper asked this time, turning in her seat so she could look at the former mercenary properly.

“Used to run with the Gunners, still might for all I know, but was high up in the ranks way before I came to Boston,” MacCready explained, leaning over the back of the armchair where Piper sat. “Rumor has it he killed some gang leader out in California before heading East. Never met him, but he’s got one hell of a reputation. Can’t believe that fu—” he hesitated, awkwardly clearing his throat. “ _Guy_ is still alive.”

“We don’t know that,” Nick said for the second time that morning. “Hasn’t been any reports of similar cases since—”

“Since Nate,” Madelyn finished, gulping down the ache that had formed in her chest.

“At least now you have a name,” Piper remarked, but it was hardly any consolation. “A lead. Better than nothing.”

“Sure, sure,” Nick agreed, though he didn’t lift his gaze from Madelyn, the two sharing a silent exchange. “MacCready, you know anybody in Quincy who’d be willing to talk?”

Their mercenary-turned-informant looked stunned, jolting upright as he anxiously rubbed at his neck. Getting dragged into another investigation was probably not why he had chosen to visit the agency that morning. Whatever the reason, it would have to wait. “Well, sure,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, I guess.”

Nick pushed back his chair to stand, moving towards the nearby coatrack to tug on his patched trench-coat and fedora. He pointed to the younger man. “Alright. You’re with me.”

When the detective noticed the confusion on Madelyn’s face, his expression settled. “I’m officially assigning you R&R.”

She couldn’t help but smile a little. “You don’t have the authority to assign me.”

Nick rolled his eyes, mumbling something about how stubborn women would be the death of him before nodding towards Deacon. Her Railroad partner understood the gesture and moved away from his spot to stand next to her. She didn’t need watching over, or protection, but she’d gladly take a reprieve if it meant spending time with _him_. Madelyn glanced up to find him with a tiny smile of his own, and he reached out to give her shoulder a comforting squeeze before retreating his hand back to his side before anyone could notice.

“Piper,” Nick gave the reporter a pointed stare before exhaling as he shook his head. “Whatever you do, just—be careful.”

She stood, playfully mocking him with a salute. “Aye, aye, detective.”  
  


* * *

  
“You lied.”

“Of course I lied,” Deacon responded without missing a beat. “Which lie are we talking about?”

Madelyn softly laughed from her spot across the circular dining table, watching as he poured her another glass of wine. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out to dinner—to an actual restaurant that wasn’t a 24-hour café—and was suddenly grateful for Nick’s subtle push. On Deacon’s suggestion they traveled uptown and found themselves a hidden gem of an Italian bistro in the process. More than one macabre joke about running into an Institute spy was made, wondering if Nick’s earlier mention of pasta had indoctrinated them, if only a little.

“When Piper asked about sending an undercover Railroad agent to MIT,” she clarified, bringing her refilled glass to her lips. “You _lied_.”

A sideways smirk. “I didn’t _lie_ , I just omitted the truth.”

Madelyn chuckled, nearly choking on her drink. “That’s—that’s the same thing!”

“Hardly,” he countered with a wave of his hand. “Do you honestly think I’d talk about Railroad business in front of _Piper_?” It was a rhetorical question, followed up with words Madelyn had heard him speak time and time again, “you can’t trust everyone.”

She sighed, and couldn’t help it as her demeanor fell, ever so slightly. “Even me?”

Deacon’s expression was hard to read—it always was when he shielded his eyes with those sunglasses—but she figured he was studying her carefully. After all the emotional breakthroughs they’d shared, she didn’t want to think for a second he didn’t trust her—not when he was one of the very few she found faith in. She wondered if it had anything to do with her holding back information on the Shaun Perlman case, and even more doubt filled her mind. Before he could say anything, she had to speak—

“Sorry,” she set her wine glass down and fidgeted with the linen tablecloth. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about what Nick and I discovered while investigating. I should’ve said something sooner and—”

“ _Charmer_ ,” Deacon stopped her short, reaching over the small table to cover her hand with his own, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “That doesn’t bother me. If it wasn’t you, I would’ve snooped around and found out already. But that’s not my place in this partnership, not anymore. I trust you to tell me whatever’s important, on your own terms.”

_Trust_ —there it was.

Madelyn gradually allowed the smile to return and flicked her gaze across his face. “Does that mean I’m allowed to have secrets?”

“A few,” he caught on to her tease. “You still haven’t told me who _really_ taught you how to pick locks.”

Her chest tightened as she thought about her departed husband, simultaneously reminiscing about her and Deacon’s first jaunt together through the underground Switchboard tunnels. Her fingers twitched beneath his grasp. “Who says anybody taught me?” she joked, recovering as best she could.

He nodded, flashing that secret smile that told her he knew she was bluffing—but he was never one to rat her out. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, slowly withdrawing his hand from hers.

“Dez is the only one that knows,” he started. “We’ve had an inside man—hell, it might be a woman—nobody has met with the agent face to face,” Deacon’s lips skewed to the side in thought. “They aren’t an official Railroad operative. But they’re the ones that started feeding us information while we were still operating at the Switchboard.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Madelyn asked, trying not to sound accusatory.

“Back then, Dez and I weren’t sure of what we were dealing with,” he explained. “It was all coded. Most of it still is. We only knew the source was coming from what we believed to be an ally, working on the inside.”

“How can you be so sure?” She was rightfully skeptical. “You never found out who was responsible for attacking the Switchboard.”

“Fair point,” Deacon replied with a shrug. “We never stopped receiving correspondence either. Even after moving to the church. Dead drops with encrypted MIT data from _Doctor Rendezvous_ themselves.”

She tried not to laugh. “Is that what you call them? Of all the codenames…”

“No,” he shook his head. “Dez and I call them _Patriot_.”

At least that explained all the reports Tinker Tom and Glory had been sifting through for the last several weeks. She wondered if any of it would prove fruitful, and if something of value would materialize sooner rather than later. _You can’t trust everyone_ —and yet, the Railroad leaders seemed to be playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse with an unknown. She hoped they knew what they were doing.

“Enough work chat,” Deacon mused, plucking the napkin from his lap and placing it across the table. “What would you say to some blueberry pie?”

Madelyn grinned, pulled from her doom and gloom thoughts. “ _Yes_.”

-x-

It was a short, hand-in-hand stroll through the uptown district to the Olympia Theatre, where she fixated on the matinee signs advertising _Gigi_ —she hadn’t seen a film in years. If it wasn’t a late night rerun on CBS, she was completely out of the loop on modern day culture. She’d seen Leslie Caron in _An American in Paris_ —a movie date with Nate so many years ago—seeing her picturesque face on the advertisement now brought back bittersweet memories. 

“Pie and dancing tonight,” Deacon’s voice was suddenly in her ear as he leaned close. “Lerner and Loewe tomorrow.”

The promise alone caused excitement to bloom in her heart, even if a trickle of guilt remained. He gently tugged on her hand, and she followed him down the cobblestone alleyway to the familiar red door and golden placard, leaving the theatre behind. 

The Memory Den was expectedly crowded for a Friday evening, but as soon as Irma caught sight of the two, she quickly ushered them to a private corner of the bar. Madelyn recognized it as _Deacon’s_ corner—if he had such a claim to the place. Given Irma was an unspoken Railroad informant, Madelyn was sure he could very well have run of the place—especially now that Eddie Winter was out of the picture. It was hardly quiet were they perched themselves on two barstools as the house band played an upbeat song, but Irma’s cheery voice was loud as ever.

“We have a live singer tonight,” she boasted, standing between them with her hands on her hips. 

Madelyn chuckled as she glanced towards the stage. “As long as it isn’t Bobby Darin.”

“Oh—” Irma faltered, unsure of her joke. “Uh, no. You’ll see! They came all the way from New York!” she beamed. “Now, I’ve seen the way you two can move, so why are you sittin’ around?”

Deacon arched an eyebrow and leaned against the bar-top. “We can’t dance on an empty stomach.”

Ironic, considering their stomachs were full of pasta, bread and wine. Madelyn only smiled at Irma when she glanced between them with curiosity. The other woman sighed before moving around the bar, walking down to the far end of the counter where a glass display showcased a variety of deserts. After a few minutes, she returned with a plate and two forks.

“Lucky you,” Irma remarked. “Last slice of the night.”

Deacon deferred to Madelyn, allowing her the first bite—it was just as delicious as she remembered, when he brought her an entire blueberry pie from Irma on Valentine’s Day. She held her palm beneath her chin on the second bite, trying not to disperse crumbs or berries all over her satin dress. She didn’t realize Deacon was watching her movements until she went for a third forkful, noticing he hadn’t taken his first. Very suddenly, a blush crept up her cheeks and he smirked. 

Irma baked away with a bright grin. “You’re welcome!”

Deacon finally took a bite, followed up with a second so they were even. They sat and ate in silence, smiling and laughing at each other over nothing and everything as the atmosphere around them intensified. Madelyn blamed it on being tipsy from her dinner wine, but a lingering thought in the back of her mind echoed it was more than that. It was always more with Deacon.

“You said there’d be dancing,” Madelyn noted, eying the crowd of dancers when their desert was finished. The singer Irma mentioned had taken the stage and had already played through a melody of fast-paced swing ensembles to warm up the audience and the band.

He nodded, taking her hand in his as he slid off the barstool to stand. As soon as they navigated through the throng of people, the lights dimmed into a bluish-purple hue, and the band’s music slowed. It didn’t deter them—they’d slow danced before, but that was undercover and what felt like a lifetime ago. This was something entirely different. Deacon’s arms encircled her waist, one hand on her lower back and the other planted firmly between her shoulders. Madelyn loosely wrapped her arms around his neck, leaned back far enough so she could study his face in the dark lighting.

“Last time we were here, you tried to slice my throat in the hallway,” he smiled at the memory, and so did she. Thinking back, it was any wonder he hadn’t turned the tables and pinned her to the wall—he certainly possessed the strength to do so. Madelyn didn’t let the thought get carried away in her mind, as much as it thrilled her.

“You weren’t so keen on dancing with me,” he remarked, tilting his head to the side.

“But I did,” she countered, inching herself closer. “You were a stranger. I should’ve known better, but I still danced with you.”

Deacon shrugged. “I still might be a stranger, you never know.”

“ _Bullshit_.”

“ _Adorable_ ,” he retorted, right on cue. “You still want to dance with me, after everything you know?”

Madelyn suddenly wondered if they were speaking in code—Deacon wasn’t really talking about _dancing_ , was he? She desperately wished she could see beyond the tinted shades he was wearing, knowing if she caught a glimpse of those baby blues, she’d have her answer within a heartbeat. Regardless of the inuendo, she knew what to say.

“Why not?” she offered in a soft voice. “You make one hell of a partner.”

He smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself, Charmer.”

As the song continued, she steadily drew herself closer until she was resting her head against his shoulder, swaying slowly in his arm as the soothing beat echoed around them.

“You’ll see me home tonight?” she asked, closing her eyes to the world around her. She felt his lips brush against her temple near her ear as he whispered so only she could hear.

“ _Yes_.”

-x-

Madelyn had never traversed the stairwell of her apartment so slowly. With Deacon at her side, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to reach the seventh floor, knowing that when they reached her door he would have to depart. That wasn’t necessarily true, but after the evening’s events, she wasn’t entirely sure if inviting him in for their usual nightcap would constitute crossing some kind of unspoken line. But what had started as a distraction had turned into what felt like a date. She was faced with an increasing dilemma with every step, one she’d been suppressing for weeks.

Their relationship—whatever it was—wasn’t a topic of discussion. Even after so many near misses, and what might as well have been a confession in a _church_ —of all places—Madelyn couldn’t pinpoint where they stood. Partners? Friends? Something more? Or something in-between? Mitigating circumstances forced them to pump the brakes before discovering if what they had was meant to be. But now, Madelyn was tired of waiting, tired of hiding her emotions to the world. All she wanted to do was drive off the cliff with a lead foot and find out.

“Charmer,” he said her name—her codename—in that sly way of his as he leaned against the doorway outside her apartment, glancing up at the shiny lettering _D_. Madelyn took it as some kind of sign. “Here we are.”

She nodded but didn’t move to rummage through her purse for her keys. “Here we are,” she repeated. Her eyes danced across the hall. “Do you think Drummer Boy is listening to us right now?”

“Without a doubt,” he responded with a soft laugh. “He needs all the gossip he can get.”

There was somebody else that was listening too, judging by the robotic voice that echoed out from beyond her door. “Miss Madelyn, is that you? Oh, it’s such a late hour!”

She groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to hide her embarrassment. What was worse than having a Mister Handy that acted like her parental guardian, reprimanding her if she came home past midnight?

“Your metal hubby is calling for you,” Deacon joked. His next action surprised her as he reached up to remove his sunglasses, tucking them away in his coat pocket. Even in the faint lighting of her hallway, his eyes gleamed with a certain kind of magic. “Shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“Let him wait,” she hushed.

It was the cue she needed, taking a hesitant step forward, closer to where he was. She reached out, one hand gripping the fabric of his tie while the other sought out the side of his face, tugging gently to bring him closer. Madelyn thought about all the times she’d wanted to kiss him but didn’t, all the times they’d almost kissed but hadn’t, every time he had slipped through her fingertips. Standing there, in front of her apartment door, it seemed to mirror previous occasions—they were so close, Deacon’s breath ghosting over her mouth as their hooded eyes locked under the intensity. She hesitated, waiting for the other foot to drop, for some kind of interruption—except, it never came. Instead, his hand at her waist tugged her just close enough as he tilted his chin and— _bliss_ —as their lips softly met.

For a long moment, the kiss was nothing but chaste, sweet. But there was a certain kind of desperation behind the contact—understandable considering how long it had been for her since her last kiss. She wasn’t sure how long it had been for him, but if she believed what he’d said about his wife—which she _did_ —it had to be a significant time. Madelyn increased the pressure first, Deacon taking the cue to slide his tongue past her lips. His fingers gripped her side as they continued, the two content with the measured pace being set. Even though they both had done their fair share of waiting—there was no need to rush.

With a soft breath, she reluctantly pulled away, a delightful heat encompassing her entire body. She relished in being able to witness the sparkle of Deacon’s eyes, his blown pupils as they darted across her face and body before snapping back up to meet her gaze.

“Shouldn’t keep him waiting,” he repeated, voice raspy. As far as goodbyes and goodnights went, it was fitting for the Railroad spy. He smirked, replacing his sunglasses where they belonged before slowly backing away towards the stairwell. “ _Charmer_.”

Madelyn didn’t enter her apartment until she was sure Deacon had descended at least a few flights of stairs, leaning against the door as she closed it behind her. Her heart was racing, the speed of which made it feel like it was lodged in her throat. She raised her fingers to trace over her lips where his mouth had just been and felt a warmth she had been chasing for months— _years_ —a sprinkle of goosebumps appeared across her skin. She felt foolish, like a schoolgirl with a crush all over again—except, this was much more than a crush. She felt a rush. She felt _alive_. She felt—

“Mum?” Codsworth’s voice made her realize he’d been hovering in front of her frozen state, robotic eyes zooming in on her body with curiosity. “Are you alright?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she answered, without hesitation. “Never better.”   
  


* * *

  
**May 18th, 1958**

“You’re smiling.”

Madelyn tried her best to suppress the grin she knew was pulling at her lips but failed. “Am I?”

She glanced over to Nick as they walked, noting that for some inexplicable reason he was in a better mood than usual. It likely had something to do with their case, and how after a decade of little to no progress, things had heated up in a matter of days. After leaving her alone for most of the weekend, he’d finally called her early that Sunday morning with an update from his own investigating. He had a lead promising enough that it demanded swift action, though Madelyn was glad to be back on the streets and investigating with the detective—just like old times. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, raising a quizzical brow in her direction. “Something I should know?”

Madelyn played coy, moving closer to link her arm in his as they continued their stroll down the Fenway district sidewalks. She patted his coat affectionately. “Mr. Valentine, don’t you know a lady shouldn’t kiss and tell?”

The surprise in his expression was short-lived as he caught on to her insinuation, and after a small stretch of silence, a low smirk settled on his face. “It’s a good look, doll.”

“Where are we headed?” Madelyn asked before he could start a line of questioning—not that she expected it, but she wanted to avoid any unnecessary pestering. “You never told me how your little date in Quincy faired.”

“I’ll tell you about my _date_ when you tell me about yours,” he countered, with expert precision. Instead of taking offense, Madelyn laughed. They hadn’t bantered in so long and it felt _refreshing_. “MacCready can be a hard-ass, when you need him to be.”

“Good cop, bad cop?”

“ _Detectives_ ,” Nick corrected. If there was one thing he hated, it was being mistaken for any member of the Boston police force—even if the two had snuffed out Eddie Winter’s corruption. It was one of the reasons they were heading this investigation on their own, and without assistance from the inside. As far as they knew, the only people worth trusting were themselves. “We got what we needed. Last known address for a one Conrad Kellogg.”

The pair continued walking past the large green walls of the Fenway stadium until they reached they grouping of apartments situated on the western side of the district. Almost immediately, the memory of when they’d last visited the Parkview Apartments came flooding back and she stared up at the tall buildings.

“Earl Sterling,” she muttered under her breath before looking to Nick. “Is it coincidence that Boston serial killers like to congregate in one area?”

“Cheap place to live, in a nondescript area of the city,” Nick frowned. “Hiding in plain sight. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe they don’t realize they all eventually follow the same patterns eventually.”

The two didn’t delay for much longer in the courtyard, entering the building and ascending the stairs after finding initials _C.K._ on one of the lobby’s mailboxes. On the fourth floor, they made their way towards a faded green door, Nick double checking the number scrawled on a lose piece of paper before shoving it back into his pocket.

“This is the place,” he assured.

“Looking for someone?”

Nick and Madelyn turned to find not exactly who they expected—a well dressed man in a tan colored suit, a freshly picked flower pinned to his lapel. He regarded them with a polite smile, but there was something unsettling about the way he stared ahead that had Madelyn’s skin crawling. Be it the location they were in, or the assumption of the people who lived there, she didn’t want to make any sudden movements.

“Do you know anything about the person who lives here?” Madelyn asked.

The suited man shook his head. “ _Lived_. Haven’t seen his handsome face in quite a while.”

“Did he die?” she continued her line of questioning, careful not to reveal too much about the circumstances of why they were there. “We’re…old college classmates of his. In town and thought to surprise him.”

“Oh, I do love surprises,” the man replied with the same, measured smile as before. “He isn’t dead. Just gone. Just like that child that came to visit every now and again. What an adorable young man.”

“A child?” Nick questioned, on high alert.

“Around ten years old, I should say,” the man answered, raising his hand to gesture height. “Hm. But what do I know? He always did say I was… _too nosy_.”

“Thank you,” Madelyn hesitantly nodded. “For letting us know.”

He made to move past them down the hallway in the opposite direction but stopped at the last moment. “The next time you’re in the neighborhood, please, stop by my gallery,” his recommendation came in a soft, eerie tone. “I have a feeling you’d be an admirer.”

Madelyn’s grip on Nick’s arm didn’t loosen until the mystery man was out of sight and even he didn’t seem to relax until all was quiet around them.

“Jesus,” he muttered, swiftly turning towards the apartment door and shuffling through his coat pockets, pulling out a lockpick. He made quick work of the deadbolt, catching the doorknob in his hand so it wouldn’t swing open. “Come on.”

Nick took the lead, his gun unholstered and at his side as he took measured steps through the small space. Madelyn followed, closing the door behind her and securing the lock—the last thing they needed was a visitor while they were sneaking around. The apartment itself was sparse, barely filled with any furniture or proof that anyone had lived there before or had been there recently. As she loitered near the kitchen nook, glancing over a pile of forgotten comic books and a case of cigars, she heard Nick call from the back bedroom.

“All clear!” he announced. “What do you make of this?”

The bedroom was just as empty as the entranceway, a double bed and desk occupying the space. Madelyn found Nick studying a pile of documents, shifting them about with a mix of confusion and concern. She plucked a dusty file from the stack and was alarmed to see a familiar set of emblems and insignia.

“These are military documents,” she confirmed what he already knew, being a former airman himself. “What are they doing here?”

Nick shook his head, unsure. “Kellogg was described as a military man in suspect reports. What if that description is accurate and he really is an enlisted officer?”

“A killer in the ranks?” Madelyn didn’t want to believe it.

Nick didn’t respond, his eyes shifting rapidly as he read over more and more of the scattered reports, even if they were mostly redacted. Madelyn couldn’t make heads or tails of them—she never could, even when she would try to sneak a peak at the files Nate would bring home. Whatever Kellogg was researching, it involved a scientific endeavor—backed by the government and heavily funded—that required top level security clearance.

“There’s only one military base in town that would be responsible for such a project,” Nick explained. Madelyn knew. The only question would be how to get inside. 

He tapped the document. “Fort Hagen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A KISS! It only took thirteen chapters! I can’t not say the scene was partly inspired by the Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and her date with Lenny Bruce. 
> 
> I pulled a lot of information on MIT’s (CIT) actions for this chapter from the game-canon and mixed it with some real-life resources. University Point Massacre, Broken Mask incident, etc. I’ve set up quite a lot of questions to answer! What is Kellogg up to at Fort Hagen? Just who is Deacon’s inside man? Was that Pickman hiding out at Parkview Apartments!? 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	15. A Face and a Number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a few weeks of preparation, Nick, Madelyn, and Deacon make their way to Fort Hagen undercover, searching for information on their suspect. At the agency, the group is joined by Piper and Hancock to discuss their findings. Madelyn makes a solo, impromptu visit to Concord. Later, at her apartment, Madelyn is faced with the realization that this time, she may have dug too deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _The Boy from New York City_ —The Ad Libs

_“To me, you're a face and a number, and let's keep it that way.” -_ Cody Jarrett as played by James Cagney _(White Heat,_ 1949 _)_

* * *

Just south of Concord, situated between the highway to the east and the hills to the west, was Fort Hagen, a sprawling command center for the United States Armed Forces. The military base was a township in itself—amongst the soldier’s barracks and administration buildings was a gas station, medical clinic, corner grocer, preschool and playground. But this wasn’t like any other town or city in Boston that could be visited while on a scenic drive-by. The satellite arrays, relay towers and other military equipment required the upmost of security measures. One did not simply walk into Fort Hagen.

As much as Nick wanted to storm the gates and follow-up on the lead they had discovered while snooping around Kellogg’s apartment, that was a sure-fire way to find himself locked up in a military prison. No amount of Madelyn’s charm or connections at city-hall would get the detective out of a court martial. And so, the two spent nearly two weeks carefully researching and organizing, coming up with the perfect plan that would get them onto the well-fortified base. A few weeks was nothing in comparison to how long the Eddie Winter investigation dragged on—they knew how to be patient.

Piper was still busy hunting down anything and everything she could about the Institute, so Madelyn and Nick made use of the rest of their resources and contacts throughout the city. MacCready had sweet-talked his way to receiving blueprints of the fort from the registrar’s office downtown. Like most of the files they had, it was heavily redacted, but still provided some clarity on what the two might find inside—if they ever got a chance. Preston and his so-called Minutemen monitored the Parkview Apartments in case Kellogg decided to make an impromptu visit. It was a longshot, but Nick didn’t want to take the risk in allowing the elusive man to slip through anybody’s fingers if there was even the slightest chance he could be caught.

Meanwhile, Madelyn and Nick poured over their case-notes and files, working in tandem with Tinker Tom who had continued to decode and reconfigure redacted report from Railroad cache sights. It was a slow process that ultimately yielded nothing the agency didn’t already know about Fort Hagen or their investigation. A breakthrough didn’t come through until Deacon revealed he’d gone through the old Switchboard files and discovered long-forgotten Defense Intelligence Agency clearances. At first the credentials seemed too good to be true—tucked away in some catacomb just waiting to be found at the opportune time—but Madelyn wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They had their saving grace—all the more fitting that it was found in the basement of a (mostly) abandoned church.

That’s when the _real_ planning started.

Even though the DIA wasn’t technically part of the military, they still belonged to the Department of Defense—the credentials were sure to get them past the security checkpoints at Fort Hagen. All they needed was a plausible reason for being there. Seeing that he was a master of disguise and skilled in the art of lying, Deacon was tasked in creating their personas and cover-stories, while Tinker Tom worked on updating the clearances to match their profiles. It was collectively decided that the best time for their _visit_ would be right before Decoration Day, with the theory the base would be scant of soldiers, the top brass busy with coordinating celebrations elsewhere. The entire operation was full of unknowns and would require a healthy mix of luck and skill to navigate the variables. But this was their only shot if they wanted answers—only time would tell if their plan would work.

* * *

**  
May 29th, 1958**

Madelyn could tell from her spot in the backseat of Nick’s Cadillac that the detective wasn’t entirely pleased with his role in what Deacon had dubbed _Operation ‘Lapins de la Mort’_ —jaw set tight and gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tight as he drove the trio west towards Fort Hagen.

“Remind me again,” he began in a measured tone. “Why I’m being ousted from my own investigation?”

Perhaps Nick was being a little over dramatic—he wasn’t being removed from the case, but he didn’t necessarily have a starring part in the grand scheme of their undercover operation. Simply put—he was the driver—the go man in the getaway car, on standby in case anything went awry. Safe to say he wasn’t happy about being resigned to wait around while Madelyn and Deacon snooped around inside the facility.

“No offense Valentine,” the Railroad spy mused from the passenger seat. “But since you won’t even _try_ to wear a disguise, you’ll only stick out like a sore thumb.”

Deacon wasn’t wrong. Madelyn glanced up through the rearview mirror to observe Nick’s appearance—his stubble had grown out in the last week and a half, and for once, he’d swapped his tattered fedora and trench coat for a newer, cleaner set. But any Bostonian with a brain and a recent copy of the _Boston Bugle_ or _Publick Occurrences_ would likely be able to recognize him as the hardboiled detective that took Eddie Winter down. Not to say Madelyn hadn’t had her fair share of recognition lately, but it had always been easier for her to blend into the background as Nick’s nameless partner—the _broad_ —she only hoped it would benefit her that day. That, and the long, brunette wig and glasses would help disguise her features.

She was also trying to settle into her undercover identity, chosen to play the part of a DIA investigator, who travelled between military sites to inspect operations and ensure they were running smoothly. Deacon—with a differently styled wig and his signature shades—would act as her second-hand-man. At first, she thought it would be better if their roles were reversed—he was the better liar and showman by far. She was reminded then, that she possessed what neither of her partners did— _female persuasion_. Madelyn would need to rely on all her skills in order to be successful—litigation, intrigue, investigation, and a whole lot of _charm._

“This plan of yours better work,” Nick muttered as he turned down the private road towards the Fort Hagen security checkpoint.

“ _Our_ plan,” Deacon corrected, reaching up to adjust his tie. “Little late to start having doubts. I had you pegged as a man of faith.”

“I used to be.”

While Nick’s somber tone worried Madelyn, she didn’t have time to console him the Cadillac slowed, compelled to stop as they were flagged down by an approaching soldier. Another watched the exchange from a small, but well-fortified building, and his expression made it clear he had no intention on raising the barricade—not without knowing their business first.

“This is a secure area,” the armed soldier expressed as soon as Nick rolled down his window. Madelyn peered through the glass to see the name-patch and insignia on his uniform— _Specialist Rhys_. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn around and leave. Immediately.”

Deacon leaned over to address the man on the driver’s side. “Don’t you recognize a DIA agent when you see one?”

He wiggled his badge for the soldier, who bent in to try to get a better look at both his and Nick’s credentials. Madelyn straightened in her spot, attempting to look as dignified and important as she thought a government agent should.

“Just got in from DC this morning,” Deacon continued. “Hagen is our first stop today, best not to keep us waiting. _Miss Kitty_ doesn’t like to be late.”

Madelyn gave Specialist Rhys a pointed look for good measure when he glanced to the back seat, and just as quickly diverted his gaze away. Still, the soldier didn’t look wholly convinced.

“We don’t have any scheduled visits for today, on account of the Decoration Day preparations,” he explained, looking over a logbook on a clipboard. “Are you sure you’re at the right facility?”

“Are we at the right facility, he says…” Deacon mumbled, lightly tapping Nick on the shoulder in mock amusement, though the detective was clearly on edge, eager to get moving. “That’s the thing about the DIA, we like our secrets and surprises. Like to keep the rest of you army types on your toes—”

Nick made an uncomfortable sound—something between clearing his throat and a groan—hinting that he was growing increasingly frustrated by Deacon’s posturing. Madelyn remained silent, only wishing he’d had the chance to see the spy in action prior to this little excursion—maybe then he wouldn’t be so anxious. The Railroad didn’t call him the best for nothing. Before anybody could speak, Specialist Rhys signaled back to the man standing guard in the building, and the road gate lifted.

“Sorry about the confusion, sir,” he nodded, pointing up the path. “We’ll radio ahead to have a delegation meet you at the command post in front of the main building.”

Deacon flashed a beaming grin. “Thank you kindly! I’ll be sure to put in a good word back at—”

The car lurched forward as Nick pressed on the gas, causing Deacon to tumble back to the passenger side. The detective let out a soft chuckle, and Madelyn had to hide her own amusement. “Don’t want _Miss Kitty_ to be late.”

The streets and buildings of the Fort Hagen military base were already lined with Decoration Day fanfare—banners of red, white, and blue, flags waving on every lawn and from every storefront post. Between the many ribbons, streamers and balloons, however, was a noticeable lack of military personnel—dismissed for the holiday weekend or sent to other sites in preparation for the next day’s events. Madelyn knew it was tradition for soldiers to plant flags on the gravesites of former soldiers, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they’d leave one for Nate. A sobering feeling washed over her as she thought about finally visiting the Concord cemetery where he was buried, but the idea fell away as quickly as it materialized. She didn’t have time to be melancholy when they had a job to do.

As they pulled up to the command post outside the main building, it was clear that _delegation_ meant two, well dressed, uniformed men. Their attire and insignia signified that they weren’t the average enlisted private, either. Nick pulled up to the designated spot along the curbside and released a sigh.

“Here goes nothing.”

Deacon and Nick exited the car in near synchronization, the detective rounding the vehicle to meet the spy as he opened the back door for Madelyn to step out. She silently thanked the two with a polite nod, steadying her composure as she approached the waiting soldiers, gripping the briefcase in her hand tightly as if to ground herself. There was a slight hesitation, as she nearly defaulted to a handshake before remembering to salute.

“Special Agent Catherine James of the Defense Intelligence Agency,” she flashed a demure smile. “Gentlemen.”

“Colonel Kells,” the man in dress uniform introduced himself, extending his arm for a handshake— _finally_ a gesture something she was used to. He politely motioned to the taller man standing to his left. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Danse. To what do we owe the pleasure of such a visit?”

Madelyn could sense the tension in his tone, but it was filled with more irritation than suspicion as he eyed both her and the men she’d arrived with. She continued to smile, not wanting to waver or show weakness. “You know as well as I do that the government doesn’t hand out grants without proper inspection. We like our ducks shiny and all in a row, so to speak. And what better way to ensure everything is running smoothly than to show up when you least suspect it?”

“In war, the enemy never gives you a fair warning,” she added, with a wink.

While the Lieutenant seemed taken aback, nervously glancing away from her face, Colonel Kells appeared impressed. “Right you are.”

“As you can tell, we are in the middle of Decoration Day preparations,” he further explained. “You’ll have to forgive my absence, but I’m needed elsewhere. Lieutenant Danse will escort you through the premises and answer any questions you may have.”

Without further clarification, Colonel Kells saluted the Lieutenant. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he answered, copying his superior’s actions.

The Colonel silently nodded to Madelyn before walking away to his own escort, and she didn’t dare to move or say anything until the officer’s vehicle was moving away from the outpost. She turned to face Lieutenant Danse, offering her hand in greeting. The man was tall, _husky_ —built like a damn wall—fitting for the United States Army. With dark hair and dark eyes, he was handsome too, all the more easy to charm. But with the Colonel gone, his expression had shifted, and he eyed her with much more skepticism than before—she’d need to change that, _fast_.

“Agent James was it?” he asked, one eyebrow arced high. He reluctantly shook her hand, as to not appear rude, but she could tell he wasn’t completely comfortable with the action. Madelyn wondered if it had to do with her _sex_ rather than her presence—something she could use to her advantage. What was it with military men and being unable to act rational around women?

“You can call me Kitty,” she grinned, letting his hand go as she noted the subtle flush of embarrassment on his face. She turned towards the waiting duo just a few feet away. “Agent Johnson will join us,” she gestured to Deacon, who was already hiding his amusement at the names he had chosen. She almost dared to go off script, just to spite him for being so smug. “Agent Johnson will monitor the perimeter.”

Nick barely maintained his composure, sighing at the Lieutenant’s brief confusion. “No relation.”

“Right,” Lieutenant Danse answered, clearing his throat. “If you’ll follow me. We’ll make our way through the visitor’s center to the main offices.”

Madelyn shared once last glance with Nick, who stared back, expression stuck between a pout and a scowl—he wouldn’t be happy until she returned, evidence in hand. She only hoped the fort actually held the secrets they were after.

The interior of Fort Hagen was not unlike the Switchboard—a state of the art government facility, technology tailored for the times and to their specific branch of the military, albeit functioning and filled with a moderate amount of personnel, even with the approaching holiday. As Lieutenant Danse led Madelyn and Deacon through the halls of desks and offices, she kept a careful eye out for anything out of the ordinary, or anybody familiar. A shiver ran up her spine as she thought about the probability of running into Kellogg himself.

“Is there anything in particular you wish to observe during your visit?” Lieutenant Danse asked, his voice pulling her back to reality.

She scanned the room, pretending to observe the military staff with a keen eye, silently nodding to Deacon as if it was part of their secret code. It was and wasn’t at the same time, mostly used to confuse their guide. Madelyn knew they needed to play their cards carefully. Ask for the goods too soon, and the jig was up—she didn’t want to think of the consequences.

“Can you give me an update on daily operations?” she questioned, looking back to the Lieutenant. He was carefully watching her movements, hands clasped behind his back. “Our last report showed this facility was performing live training with protectrons in accordance to military contracts with RobCo.”

“That is still accurate, ma’am,” he answered with a firm nod. “The robots Mister House provided may move slower than your average soldier, but they certainly pack a harder punch.”

Madelyn raised a curious brow at his phrasing. “Concerned about being replaced by technology, Lieutenant?”

“N— _no_ , ma’am,” he hesitated in answering, turning away as he led on through the offices to an observatory area. Below, army specialists were hunched over a spread of diagrams and blueprints, the charts too far away to discern.

She tilted her head, thinking back to the dossier Tinker Tom had compiled based on all the information he’d been able to drudge up on the fort’s activities. “And here I thought we’d stopped production on MK-1 turrets.”

“We have,” Lieutenant Danse confirmed, his eyes darting across the various people through the tinted glass. “Truth be told, I’m not privilege to _everything_ that occurs within these walls. You’d have to speak with General Maxson, and I’m afraid he’s currently off-site.”

Madelyn wondered if he was holding something back, eyeing the soldier’s body language for any tell-tale signs. Not that she felt comfortable interrogating him for more information, but if there was even the _slightest_ hint something sinister was occurring behind the scenes, she wanted to know. But whatever anxiety the Lieutenant appeared to be showing was more indicative of her close proximity and not some big secret he was trying to hide about Fort Hagen’s operations. With a disappointed sigh, she gave another nod to Deacon, who tapped his nose in return.

“Director Gould was explicit that we inspect the records room,” she spoke, driving the conversation and tour forward. “She has quite the reputation as being the most organized member of the DOD. Her demands aren’t to be trifled with.”

“Yes, of course,” Lieutenant Danse agreed, motioning with his hand towards a long hallway. “This way.”

In the next corridor, there was a secure door that required a keycode for entry. She was polite enough to look away as the Lieutenant entered the passcode, but she knew Deacon snuck a peak, unable to resist the forbidden knowledge. The room itself was enormous, akin to a library with tall shelves of books and binders, metal cabinets filled with files and paperwork.

“We’ve been following Director Gould’s suggested methods ever since she sent out the new directives two years ago,” Lieutenant Danse explained, walking them past the front desk where a lone clerk flashed a curt salute. “Every piece of intelligence is properly archived within these walls. Only authorized personnel are permitted to remove records, and all requests must be logged with the clerk.”

As she looked around, listening to his explanation, it started to sound and feel more like Fort Knox than Fort Hagen. “Would we permitted to perform an audit?”

The Lieutenant’s stern expression hadn’t changed much, but even then she felt like she might have crossed the line, shown their hand too soon. After a few moments of silence, he slowly nodded.

“I believe that would be…permissible,” he agreed. “What would you like to assess?”

Madelyn paused, even though she had her answer long before they’d made their trip that day. “K—for _Kitty_.”

The three navigated through the rows of shelves and cabinets until they reached a section, little flags with black lettering blocking off every few feet. _Ka_ — _Ke_ —Yes, that would do. She set her briefcase down by her feet and pointed to the cabinet she wanted to inspect. “This may take a while.”

Lieutenant Danse didn’t seem phased at first, content to watch her as she clicked open the drawer and began filtering through the various files. Under his watch, she had to at least pretend to be slowly inspecting that the paperwork was in order, humming under her breath and smiling to herself as if she _enjoyed_ playing secretary.

Deacon decided it was time for him to shine. “Catch the game last night?”

“Excuse me?”

“The game,” Deacon clarified, earning the Lieutenant’s attention. “Baseball. Ya’ know, _America’s pastime._ I swear, it was a close one—”

Madelyn tuned them out as soon as she confirmed her partner had managed to engage the soldier fully, rambling on about player statistics and the next day’s game against Baltimore. A part of her was humored, imagining Deacon studying up on the Red Sox players before wondering if he was actually, secretly a fan of the sport. God willing he never dragged her to a game. She quickened her pace, lest she become distracted by whatever the hell _Vito’s save_ was.

The entire infiltration of Fort Hagen was a long shot. So, as Madelyn skimmed through the folders, she didn’t expect to find much, if anything of consequence. But then, right as she reached the back of the drawer, she saw lettering typed out in a bold font, displaying a familiar name— _C, Kellogg_. She almost gave herself a papercut yanking it out to inspect, refraining from opening the folder at the last moment when she thought about how to get the file into her briefcase. Deacon’s distraction wouldn’t be enough.

The idea struck her instantly and without a second to overthink her next movements, she tugged on the metal cabinet, shouting dramatically as the entire structure came toppling over. As hundreds of papers flied out, she swiftly captured the one she had been searching for, tucking in with a few others as she knelt to the floor, feigning collapse. Lieutenant Danse and Deacon were by her side in an instant, the two quickly lifting the cabinet back into place. Madelyn took the opportunity to stuff the handful of files into her briefcase, clicking open and shutting it closed again like a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it magic trick. By the time Deacon leaned to assist her, the job was done. Her hand in his, she gave him one last signal—three quick squeezes.

“Agent James, ma’am,” the Lieutenant’s concern was evident, even if he also appeared worried about the mess of files. “Are you alright?”

“While your files are organized Lieutenant,” Madelyn explained, breathing a sigh of relief—genuine, but only because their _real_ task was complete. Well—so far. “They don’t appear to be structurally sound.”

The soldier frowned. “I apologize.”

“I appreciate it,” she answered, with a broad smile. “I will be kind in my report. You may lead on.”

For the following hour Madelyn and Deacon continued to follow Lieutenant Danse through the fort, her hand squeezing the handle of her briefcase so tightly she thought her fingers would snap in two. As confident as she had felt about securing supposed evidence on Kellogg, it was quickly dwindling the longer she was subjected to a farce of a tour. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep the façade up, pretending to be interested in what constituted as military secrets. Thankfully, Deacon appeared to be engaged and as collected as ever, silencing maintaining their cover.

When they were finally back outside, Nick was still standing by the Cadillac where they’d left him, left foot twitching as he tapped it against the sidewalk impatiently. When the group was close enough, she flashed him a wink, twitching her nose as she subtly glanced to what she was holding. The detective was barely able to hide his surprise, eyeing them as he eagerly awaited their return. Madelyn wouldn’t share in the excitement until they were far away from the military base, certain they had completed their _operation_ without detection.

Lieutenant Danse turned to them near the curbside, never relaxing from his rigid military posture. “Agent James, Agent Johnson,” he nodded to both of them. “I hope your visit to Fort Hagen was satisfactory.”

“Very,” she answered, glancing to Deacon. “Johnny boy and I have a few more stops before we return to D.C, but I believe you’ve set a precedent.”

The Lieutenant, for once, showed the slightest bit of reaction— _pride_. He offered a salute, and parting words. “Ad Victoriam.”

“Defendam hoc,” she replied, copying his gesture. “Until we meet again.”  
  


* * *

  
It shouldn’t have been surprising that Piper was waiting for the trio when they returned to the agency that afternoon, as the reporter had a knack for occupying the space even though she had a perfectly suitable office on the second floor. Madelyn hadn’t visited the _Publick Occurrences_ suite in a long while, but assumed it was just as cluttered as the last time she saw it, covered in newsprint, photos and paperwork. That day, Piper wasn’t alone. 

“Nicky boy, good to see you.”

It had been over a month since Madelyn last saw Hancock, when she paid him a visit at the Old State House during Nick’s hospitalization. He hadn’t changed much, not that she expected him to, still wearing his red coat and golden pin— _of the people, for the people_. He was leaned back in Nick’s chair, ankles crossed with his feet on the desk, flashing a lazy grin.

“Been a while,” he mused.

The detective was less than enthused by the sight, walking over to shove Hancock’s boots back to the floor, hovering intimidatingly until the other man finally moved. This time, he perched himself in an armchair, lounging back without much decency or care that there were others in the room. Even though Madelyn barely knew him, she understood the behavior aligned with his reputation. She crossed through the room to sit opposite of their _guest_ , while Deacon followed to settle into his usual spot against the back wall.

He smiled at her, offering a low whistle. “Love the look, dollface.”

She returned the expression but couldn’t wait to slip into her office and remove the wig and return to her usual self. How did the saying go? _Gentlemen prefer blondes_ —well, so did Madelyn, at least when it came to her own hair.

“What do you want, John?” Nick finally asked, removing his hat and coat before practically collapsing into his seat. Within seconds, he struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette, ignoring Hancock’s request for a spare. After a long day at the military base, it was to be expected—especially if they were about to reconvene on what they’d discovered.

“Miss Wright and I were just discussing the _fascinating_ attributes of one, Mayor McDonough,” Hancock answered. “Otherwise known as my sleazy, good-for-nothing brother.”

Piper had never agreed with the mayor’s policies, or ethics—read any article she’d written on the subject and you’d get a clear understanding of her stance within seconds. She had McDonough pegged as corrupt before half the city knew what corruption was, only learning it was possible after Eddie Winter’s dirty laundry was left hung out to dry in the papers after his death. But that investigation hadn’t been able to link the mayor to anything nefarious. It seemed now that Piper was after the Institute, she was determined to root out McDonough’s secrets once and for all.

“He hasn’t been seen since the MIT demonstration,” she noted, and even Madelyn had to admit that was strange for a government official. The mayor of Boston couldn’t just disappear for two weeks without suspicion—thank God for intrepid reporters. “Even Hancock can’t get an audience.”

“Shut out by my own flesh and blood,” he mocked offense, holding a hand over his heart. “Guy has always been a pain in the ass, but hell, even on our worst days he’d still call me up on holidays and birthdays. Shake my hand in public. And on rare days, join me for a scotch in the Old State House.”

Nick was listening, but his focus was clearly on the briefcase Madelyn had situated on her lap. Piper sighed, resigned to the fact that the detective had his priorities. Until the Shaun Perlman case was solved, his interest in her investigation was limited. With all eyes on her, Madelyn took the cue to click open the case.

“I might have grabbed more than necessary,” she said, shuffling through the extra files before leaning over to place one on Nick’s desk. He read over the typewritten name, confirming it matched their suspect— _Conrad Kellogg_.

The group continued to sit in relative silence as Nick skimmed through the paperwork, tracing his finger across redacted lines and mumbling under his breath with a furrowed brow. “Most of this reads like any military dossier.”

“So your man really is a soldier,” Hancock suggested, inferring he’d been brought up to speed on their cold-case.

“Looks like it,” Nick muttered, but his eyes continued to scan, flipping through page after page of information. Suddenly, he blanched, and momentarily flicked his gaze to Piper as his mouth twitched. “MIT is mentioned.”

“ _What_?” the reporter yelped, rushing to the desk and practically yanking the file from Nick’s hands. He didn’t resist, leaning back in his chair as he thoughtfully rubbed at his chin. Piper gasped as she read over the text. “This is his medical history. It says that in 1945, after returning home from the war in Europe, he received _experimental brain augmentation_ in an attempt to cure a traumatic head injury.”

Her voice was shaky, clearly alarmed by what she’d recited. Madelyn sat in stunned silence, unable to believe was she was hearing—could it be possible Kellogg was linked to the Institute after all? “As far as these reports indicate, MIT considered the operation a success.”

“ _I’ll_ say,” Nick muttered, shaking his head. “This goes back to your theory on Institute experiments. Who’s to say they didn’t implant something while rooting around, only for it to backfire?”

Piper reluctantly nodded. “That means we were right. MIT has been hiding secrets for years. _Decades_ even.”

An eerie silence filled the room as Nick stared down at his right hand—the prosthetic that he’d received after returning from the war, courtesy of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Similar circumstances to Kellogg, and yet set on entirely different paths. Madelyn knew there was little she could do to settle the questions that were likely running through his mind.

“Could this explain his crimes?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Any of his actions?”

Nick didn’t answer, so Piper took the initiative. “Anything is possible. The Institute has made that much clear.”

“Maybe they put one in Guy’s brain too,” Hancock joked.

At first, his statement didn’t resonate with the others, but Piper’s expression quickly shifted, her interest piqued. “That—that would make sense. It would explain _everything_ about his actions.”

“Gives a new meaning to government puppet,” Hancock muttered.

Madelyn focused on her partner, and his continued silence. “What do you want to do, Nick?”

The detective didn’t answer for a long time, still focused on his hand, studying the hard lines of his palm. Only when his cigarette was burned down to the filter did he let out a deep sigh. “Only one thing left to do.”

He lifted his head to stare at the others. “We go after MIT.”

They’d managed to infiltrate Fort Hagen—how hard could sneaking into the Institute be?  
  


* * *

  
There was something to be said about the dangers of women walking the Boston streets alone at night. Even though Eddie Winter and his crime syndicate had been shut down, and the corruption within the police department and government had been culled, there was always an underlying threat when living in the city. Between rumors of a so-called _Fens Phantom_ and the _Cola-Killer_ , or worries of running into a crazed, scarred gunman—there was always the possibility of running into something sinister behind every dark corner.

Madelyn wasn’t afraid, and it wasn’t because of the pistol strapped to her thigh-holster under her dress, or the backup stored in her purse for good measure. For all the potential danger lurking about after sunset, nothing was more terrifying than the idea of what she was about to do. Since the visit to Fort Hagen and subsequent discovery of evidence linking Kellogg’s involvement with the Institute, she’d had the overwhelming desire to return to Concord. Not with Nick to follow-up on their investigation, but to visit a place she thought she’d never come back to—the church. Perhaps something within her snapped when the connection had been made at the agency. Nick would sort out their leads, coordinate with Preston’s Minutemen on surveillance for the university. Piper would work with Hancock on locating Mayor McDonough in an attempt to shake him down for answers. Deacon would return to Railroad headquarters so Tinker Tom could mine the redacted information from the smuggled Fort Hagen files. Madelyn would rendezvous with the others in the afternoon, after she paid a visit to city hall to research caselaw and any court documents on file for the Institute. Their plans were set into motion without a moment to lose—the totality of it all, frightening.

Then again, she’d been delaying the visit for months— _years_ —best not to fool herself into thinking some wild event had finally pushed her over the edge. If trauma was what she needed, Madelyn had plenty of opportunities in recent memory to travel north to Concord, and to the little church cemetery in which her husband had been laid to rest for all eternity. It was better late than never. If ghosts, spirits— _guardian angels_ , were real—she hoped he could forgive her for the delay.

Madelyn stood at the gates for a long time, before musing to herself that if anybody were watching her, how strange it must be for a young woman to be staring longingly into a graveyard. Even then, her movements were slow as she navigated the tombstones and tiny monuments, paying them no attention. Underneath a shady tree near the back corner was her husband’s grave, the inscription easy to read thanks to the dedicated groundskeeper who worked to maintain the site, even when nobody visited.

 _Nathaniel James—Devoted Son, Husband, and Soldier_

Madelyn swallowed back the flood of emotions that threatened to knock her down to her knees and released a shaky breath. “Hi honey.”

 _What_? She shut her eyes tight, groaning at her own frustration. A year and a half, and all she could think to say was _that_? Instead of flowers, she fumbled with the most expensive bottle of whiskey she could find at the corner store and turned it in her hands, showing off the label as if he could see.

“I brought the good hooch,” she attempted to tease, but the words felt forced. Finally, with a defeated sigh, she slumped. “I—I don’t know how to do this.”

Tears prickled her vision and she gripped the bottle in one hand, reaching up with her other to wipe at her eyes. “I don’t know a lot of things. How to feel about you being gone, for starters. Guilty for the slightest bit of happiness? Sad and wallowing in self-pity? Nick doesn’t think so.”

A breeze shook the branches of the tree, startling her. She glanced around in the darkness before deciding to sit down on the ground, uncaring of the dirt and grass that would likely stain her dress—Codsworth would have words with her on laundry day. After some consideration, she unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and carefully poured a little out onto the ground in front of his headstone.

“Is Heaven a dry county?” she joked, smirking as the liquid disappeared into the earth. “They don’t teach such blasphemy in Catholic school.”

She took a sip straight from the bottle, wincing at the smooth burn as it travelled down her throat and radiated through her chest and gut. “Everybody always wants to offer unsolicited advice,” she lamented. “I know Nick means well, he always has. And maybe I shouldn’t give him such grief after—”

Madelyn broke off when she thought about her partner’s own, recent loss. “At least you and Jenny have each other now.”

The only sound—or response—were the rustling of the leaves in the oak tree. She sat in the quiet for a while, alternating between pouring more whiskey onto the ground and into her mouth until her skin felt tingly.

“All I know is—” she steadied herself as the tears clouded her vision again. “Damnit Nate, I miss you.”

“I have Nick, and Piper and—” her breath hitched, unable to prevent herself from crying. “I activated Codsworth. He’s such a sweetheart, for a robot with artificial intelligence. Worries so _damn much_. I— _we_ —have a dog too,” she softly laughed, thinking off all the times she’d seen the Mister Handy walking Dogmeat outside her Cambridge apartment, much to the confusion and wonderment of her neighbors. “But I miss our house, I miss our life. Our _plans_. I miss dates at Shelly’s—they _tore it down_ last summer—”

Madelyn stopped cold, realizing she’d gone on an emotional rant to an inanimate object, admitting more to empty air than she had to any living person. Remorse trickled through her mind as she realized there was one name she’d omitted, perhaps purposefully. She wasn’t lying about the way she felt—not in the slightest—but her feelings went beyond that of her late husband.

“I have more bad news,” she hushed, side-eyeing the grave like it could come to life and take his form at any moment. Maybe she’d taken too many sips of the whiskey. “I—I met someone. Maybe. Still trying to figure out the circumstances of our paths crossing. He might’ve stalked me. Might be stalking me now.”

She glanced up to the nearby church steeple window, looking for a looming shadow. “Despite the warning signs, and odds, and… _cons list_ , I—”

Madelyn’s face felt warm, and it wasn’t from the alcohol. Why was she unable to admit how she felt, even though she’d made peace with the realization time and time again? Maybe it was the absurdity of expressing it aloud, to her deceased husband’s grave— _I’m in love with somebody else_.

“I’m a _fool_ ,” she sighed, tipping the whiskey bottle so more amber liquid spilt onto the ground. A little moved to dampen the edge of her dress, but she was beyond caring. “To want something after all the death and destruction—not to mention _explosions—_ it’s new and exciting and _terrifying_.”

“And I’m _still_ carrying around all this guilt and shame,” she tossed her head back, grimacing when her skull thumped the hard stone. “We’ve been busy with this case, but I’m afraid my apprehension is obvious. Even if I started it.”

“Was I always this stubborn?”

Madelyn shook her head. “Don’t—I know you can’t, but—don’t answer that.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she continued, quietly. “I don’t know why I finally decided to come see you. Like I said—I don’t know a lot right now, but I’m trying. Waiting for the next big break—though, I guess that’s already happened. Don’t suppose you can tell me if Nick and I are on the right track?”

Silence. Well—what did she expect?

“I need a sign,” she mumbled, gesturing to her surroundings. “Something a little louder than the wind in the trees. You know I’m not a fan of subtlety.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure if she was asking for divine intervention on the agency’s investigation, or for something _else_. Maybe both. Regardless, it didn’t hurt in asking for assistance from the other side. Unable to drink anymore, she capped the bottle of whiskey and tucked it safely against Nate’s gravestone, digging it into the soft dirt so it wouldn’t topple over so easily.

“There,” she sighed. “Now you can get shitfaced with the apostles.”

A sad little smile pulled at her lips as she wondered if her husband would’ve found the joke in poor taste. Somebody else she knew would’ve laughed like she was Lenny Bruce performing in New York. She pushed away the thoughts of another man and the associated guilt that ensued, focusing as she ran her fingers across Nate’s engraved name.

“I love you,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “No matter what happens next.”

Madelyn didn’t linger for long, unsure if she wanted to know what could possibly occur in a cemetery after midnight. However, as she left the Concord graveyard and stood on the sidewalk to hail a cab, she couldn’t shake the sense that she was being watched.  
  


* * *

  
It was late when Madelyn managed to haul herself up the seven flights to her apartment door, the hallway quiet and dark save for one flickering, fluorescent light near the stairwell. She wondered, as she fished the keys from her purse, if her neighbors were fed up with her late-night escapades or were suspicious of her line of work. If they hadn’t seen the fruit of her labors plastered across the newspapers, she was sure they’d probably think of her as some kind of floozie. Maybe when the Shaun Perlman case was closed, and Kellogg was captured, she could settle down and return to practicing law at the District Attorney’s office downtown.

Laughter bubbled in her throat—first at the assumption there would be no more cases to solve, that the work would ever truly be gone. Second, that she’d ever leave the agency and Nick behind. Or _anybody_ behind. To finally be part of something larger than oneself as she assisted not one, but _two_ organizations—Nick’s partner with the agency by day, Deacon’s partner with the Railroad at night. Settle down? _Never_.

Deacon’s parting words at the office suddenly echoed in her mind and she turned on her heel to face Drummer Boy’s door. She hesitated before knocking, not wanting to disturb him at such an odd hour. But Railroad agents were habitual night-owls, and not a moment after tapping, the lock clicked open and she was greeted by a familiar, kind smile.

“Just checking in. Doctor’s orders,” she pursed her lips in thought. “Not _Carrington_ , but—”

“Deacon called ahead,” he explained, cutting her off.

While Drummer Boy would never come out and interrogate her, the way he was eyeing her with one raised brow told her he’d been listening for her return. She liked having the Railroad agent nearby, but she didn’t need to be on surveillance—something she’d need to remind her partner of the next time she saw him. It was bad enough she had a Mister Handy unit that was likely ready to report her missing if she didn’t walk through the door in the next ten minutes. The last thing she needed was a _babysitter_.

“Late night?” he simply questioned.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she sighed, cutting him some slack—he was just doing his job. Madelyn’s head still felt dizzy from drinking all that whiskey at Nate’s grave, and exerting herself on so many stairs didn’t help the unsettling feeling in her stomach. Maybe some food would help. “Did you have dinner yet? Thursday…I’m sure Codsworth has some kind of casserole in the oven.”

“Rain check,” he grinned, even as he shook his head. She was remined that despite his duties to the underground organization, they had managed to form a good friendship. It was only natural, seeing as they were neighbors. “I’ve got a stack of dead drops to sort through and run to their next location before dawn.”

Madelyn didn’t take offense to his rejection, understanding that his Railroad obligations came first. “I’ll save a piece for you,” she said. “Well, if Dogmeat doesn’t lick the pan clean.”

The two shared a laugh before bidding each other goodnight. Keys in hand, she stepped through her door to find her apartment unusually dark. She tossed her purse and coat over the back of her couch and reached to turn on the lamp on the table, but even after a few tugs on the chord, no light shined through the bulb.

“Codsworth?” she called for the robot, and heard his buzzing from the hallway, but only Dogmeat came bounding out into the living room to greet her. “Hey boy, is the power out?”

She patted his head and looked around the room, trying to remember where she’d last stashed a flashlight or some candles. Curiosity filled her mind when she thought about the fact she’d seen light coming through Drummer Boy’s door—had she forgotten to pay her electric bill amid the chaos of recent investigations? Dogmeat barked, and Codsworth finally appeared from the hallway.

“Miss Madelyn, you’re finally home.”

She moved to meet him halfway near the kitchen island, ready to crack a self-depreciating joke about the circumstances when something shot through the nearby window, whizzing so fast in front of her that she barely had a chance to react or realize what it was—a _bullet_. A second shot caused the glass of the window to shatter and Madelyn was unable to hold back a frightened shriek. A third flew by, ricocheting off the kitchen counter and into Codsworth’s chassis. The Mister Handy didn’t seemed phased, brushing off the attack as he rambled off threating phrases to the phantom assailant, hovering closer towards the window.

In the next second, Drummer Boy burst through her front door, gun drawn. With quick strides he was at her side, colliding with her body as another bullet whistled by. They fell to the floor in a heap, Drummer Boy scooting them out of sight from the window and behind the kitchen counter to best of his abilities. Muted gunshots continued to echo through her apartment until _finally_ —there was silence. Madelyn’s adrenaline continued to rush for a long while, and neither her or Drummer Boy dared to move, unsure if it was really safe. Judging by the way Codsworth was moving around the room, celebrating their _survival,_ the coast was clear—for now.

It was only when she felt a dampness seeping against her chest that panic started to bloom and she thought to move—had she been injured? Her thoughts shifted as Drummer Boy flashed her a pained expression, breathing out through gritted teeth as he pulled away if only to collapse flat against the tiled floor.

“Robby?” Madelyn knelt over him, uncaring of Railroad protocol on codenames. Blood soaked through the side of his shirt where he’d obviously been shot. “ _Jesus_ , you’re—”

He shook his head and forced a smirk. “I’m _fine_.”

“Just a flesh wound,” he assured in a hushed tone.

Madelyn had a hard time believing it, considering the painful expression he was struggling to hide. He slowly gestured to her arm, and she realized she really had been injured—blood trickling down her arm from a tear in the shoulder of her dress. It was a small graze, as far as she could tell. Considering the wound could be worse—and that she’d suffered worse before—she wasn’t fazed. The shock would likely catch up to her later, as it typically did. All she cared about in that moment was finding out why she’d been shot at in her own home—who wanted her dead? Her sense of security was shattered, all over again. 

“On second thought,” Drummer Boy mumbled, catching her attention. Madelyn found his hand and gripped it tightly, listening as the sound of police sirens wailed outside the apartment building and filtered in through the busted window. At least _somebody_ had the decency to call for help. Tears began their silent roll down her cheeks as she wondered, how much more harm would come to those she cared about?

He barely squeezed her fingers in return. “I’ll take that slice of casserole now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my US readers, until 1971, Memorial Day was known as Decoration Day, and was not a Federal Holiday. It was also always celebrated on May 30th, regardless of what day that landed on. After it became a Federal Holiday, it was moved to be observed on the last Monday in May, so that Americans could make use of our cushy three-day-weekends. Whoo! Except, you know, the real reason the holiday exists isn’t for summer vacations or markdown sales! 👀
> 
> Also, according to the Fallout Wiki, the DIA wasn’t formed until 1961…but considering they are an intelligence agency that “never officially existed”, I have the authority to ‘author hand wave’ their date of existence back a few years for the sole purpose of using them here. What else was that underground complex beneath the Slocum Joe’s being used for? 
> 
> PS: The US Military is a complicated creature and incredibly difficult to research as a complete outsider; I apologize for any inaccuracies. Again, fitting it into 1958 and mixing it with Fallout lore, there’s bound to be some…weirdness. I say, enjoy!
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	16. The Liar’s Kiss That Says I Love You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to the New England Medical Center finds Madelyn struggling with who she can trust. She and Deacon have a long conversation about the power of truth and lies, and she learns one more of his closely guarded secrets. At a Railroad safehouse, the two reminisce on their first operation and realize they may have fallen into a cliché after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Stay_ —Maurice Williams & The Zodiacs
> 
> This chapter contains mild/not-so-mild sexual content. Proceed at your own desire! When you see the French language being used, you have reached the point of no return!  
> 

“ _Kiss me, Mike. I want you to kiss me. The liar’s kiss that says I love you and means something else_.” - Lily Carver as played by Gaby Rodgers ( _Kiss Me Deadly_ , 1955)

* * *

**May 30th, 1958**

Madelyn had hoped she wouldn’t have a reason to visit the New England Medical Center so soon, memories of Nick’s hospitalization and near-death experience at the hands of Eddie Winter fresh in her mind. Yet there she was, struggling to ignore the sympathetic glances from the familiar faces of doctors and nurses as they patched up her arm and provided her with a tetanus shot—undoubtedly more painful than her injury, at least without the surge of adrenaline to dull her senses. Who would have guessed that a needle could hurt worse than a bullet?

The same medical staff allowed her to stay with Drummer Boy in his assigned recovery room, despite the fact she was of no relation. It was likely out of pity for all they had seen her experience in recent months. Between everything that had happened to her and Nick when they went after Eddie Winter in April, Jenny’s death when the hospital was ambushed thereafter, and now an attempted assassination at her own apartment—Madelyn was starting to think her luck—if she had any to begin with—was running out.

By the grace of God—or maybe Drummer Boy’s perfect timing—she’d escaped relatively unharmed. He wasn’t so fortunate, but the commotion of the shooting hadn’t gone unnoticed in her Cambridge neighborhood. When the Boston Police arrived, she was initially surprised to see Sergeant Sullivan, but considering he was the last trustworthy cop left in the city, she was grateful for his presence. He ensured that she and Drummer Boy got to the New England Medical Center in a timely manner while his task force secured the area. Madelyn wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of strange men lurking about her apartment, but she had little choice but to agree.

In the quiet of Drummer Boy’s room, she finally had a chance to process what had occurred and how close she had come to death— _again_. An unknown assailant dared to attack Madelyn in her own home, where she was most vulnerable. The list of suspects in her mind narrowed down to one as she thought about the agency’s infiltration of Fort Hagen, and the smuggled documents on Kellogg. While there hadn’t been any sightings of him since the late 40s, his vanishing act did little to ease anyone’s mind. The proof was in the casefile—Kellogg had a way of finding the people he deemed unfit for life. It made sense that he’d come for her, especially if he really was an agent of the Institute—they were likely to have their own list of reasons for wanting her dead.

An unsettling notion entered her mind as she thought about the man who had stalked her and Deacon before and again at the Cambridge campus on the day of the demonstration. What if it was _him_ who had attempted to kill her, and not Kellogg as she assumed? What if it was a random android, set up in a building across the street, programmed to shoot into her apartment window at a specific time? Worse yet, what if the would-be assassin was just another one of the Institute’s experiments? Just another name, another face to get lost in the crowd—just as Piper feared. That meant nobody was beyond suspicion, not when it was still unknown just how long the Institute had been performing these so-called brain augmentations—if they were even behind the attack in the first place.

Madelyn clasped Drummer Boy’s hand tight as the paranoia and anxiety settled in. She couldn’t live like that—constantly looking over her shoulder—living in fear. She couldn’t go through life wondering who was or wasn’t worthy of her trust. Not when she’d finally gained back her sense of security—her sense of sanity—her sense of _self_. After Nate’s death, after Eddie Winter, after _everything_ —the last thing she wanted was to fall back into the endless spiral of despair.

_You can’t trust everyone._

The words echoed in her mind like so many times before, her chest tightening under the painful realization of how true they were. Madelyn closed her eyes the moment tears clouded her vision, clenching her jaw so tight she feared her teeth might chip. Anything to prevent herself from crying. It didn’t matter that she was (mostly) alone—she was so exhausted from so many nights of _crying_. Perhaps it was her concentration that made it difficult to hear the echoing footsteps in the hallway or the soft knock. It wasn’t until the door began to creak open that she reacted, recoiling in a way that she nearly fell out of her chair.

“Charmer?”

“Deacon?”

Madelyn breathed out his name, relieved it was _him_ and not anyone else. While the doctors and nurses provided some comfort, it paled in comparison to the intimacy they shared. Still undefined, still unspoken—but undeniably close.

He hesitated, quietly closing the door behind him as he observed her, eyebrows raised high above the frame of his darkened shades. For as stoic and pensive as she’d seen him be in the past, especially when reacting to various tragedies and disastrous events, he appeared to be faltering now. It was always difficult to fully discern his emotions when half his face was obscured, but he looked curious, if not concerned. His silence indicated he was likely worried too, but Deacon would never say it outright.

Madelyn’s pulse gradually settled, but she had a difficult time fully relaxing under his watchful gaze. In that moment, with her willpower drained, she looked away. She focused on Drummer Boy’s steady breathing, brushing the pad of her thumb across his wrist and hospital band.

“Danny— _Sullivan_ ,” Deacon corrected himself, slowly moving to stand near the end of the hospital bed. “He tracked me and Valentine down, took us back to your apartment.”

“I know,” she responded, barely above a whisper. “I had him do so.”

“Ol’ Nick took a lot of convincing to stay behind,” he explained, setting down the canvas bag and glass Tupperware he carried on the small table. “But he didn’t want to leave those cops unsupervised. Even if they’re Sullivan’s men—”

 _You can’t trust everyone_ —he didn’t have to say it.

“It figures,” she sighed, closing her eyes again. “Probably looked like somebody died, huh?”

Deacon remained silent, though she could hear him, _feel_ him, approaching. Soon enough, he was standing at her side, causing a tingle to run up her spine—an unexplainable feeling—but her skin suddenly ached for the simplest form of touch. As if he could read her mind (and she wouldn’t be surprised if he _could_ ), he rested his hand over hers and Drummer Boy’s. Madelyn immediately snapped open her eyes with a sharp inhale of air, momentarily stunned by the contact.

She needed more.

In an instant she was standing, clinging to him with her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders as she pressed up on her toes, tired feet and aching shoulder be damned. Deacon was quick to return the embrace, holding her close as he kept his arms snug around her torso. Madelyn stayed there, face pressed against the soft wool of his coat—she wanted to tease him for wearing it so near to summer but now she was grateful for the comfort it provided. She didn’t cry, despite the fact that she wanted to, and probably needed to as well. Bristling with quiet desperation, the only thing Madelyn was sure of was that she didn’t want to be alone. 

“I just—” she started after a long stretch of silence. “I’d like to go home.” 

Deacon gradually pulled her away, easing her back so her heeled feet were level with the ground. He swept back a few errant curls behind her ear, fingers lingering along the curve of her cheek. At first, she thought he might kiss her, but he skewed his lips to the side instead. “No can do, Charmer.”

Madelyn sighed—she knew that, but it was worth a try. Her eyes danced over to the belongings on the table. Deacon sensed her curiosity.

“Codsworth insisted I bring you something to eat,” he explained, nodding his chin towards the glass container.

“Better left for Drummer Boy. I’m told hospital food tastes of despair,” she flashed a meek smile. “And the bag?”

“Some clothes for you,” he said. “Any chance to rifle through your naughty drawer.”

If it were anybody else, she wouldn’t have appreciated such an ill-timed joke. Deacon’s smirk relaxed into a gentler expression, his thumb tracing down the angle of her chin towards her mouth. “Let’s get you someplace safe.”

There was a hidden meaning to his words that had Madelyn equal parts excited and trembling with anxiety. He wanted her safe, but also alone—all to himself. They’d kissed, crossed that barrier two weeks prior. But whatever was to come next was to be determined, put on hold, as their focus quickly became centered on finding Kellogg and infiltrating the Institute. Romance could wait—or maybe it couldn’t.

What was she so afraid of? 

Finally, she spoke. “Do you trust me?”

“You’ve asked that before,” he responded in a low, contemplative voice.

He was right—Madelyn _had_ poised the question on more than one occasion. And the last time, just as before, he hadn’t given a straight answer. It was always easy enough for her to assume and take his presence for granted. But now more than ever, she needed honesty—if it was even possible. She wanted nothing more than to be engulfed in the flame they’d ignited, but she’d sooner snuff out the fire if he couldn’t give her this _one_ answer.

“I know that lying is your profession. That you’d sooner court _death_ than the truth,” she paused, reluctantly leaning away from his touch, noting the glimmer of disappointment in his features. “Against better judgement, I trust you.”

“But I need to know that you feel the same—that you trust _me_ ,” Madelyn expressed, doing her best not to sound like she was pleading. “Not just as your partner in the Railroad, but—”

She broke off, grasping his hand as part of her silent allusion. There was a subtlety to his reaction, but enough of one that told her he understood the inference. Deacon said nothing, eyebrows firmly creased together as he considered her words. The silence dragged on enough that she felt foolish for saying anything in the first place. She tried not to feel overly disappointed or react in a disproportionate way—the last thing Madelyn wanted was an argument.

“There’s an imbalance,” she mumbled, unsure of her train of thought. “You know so much about me, a fault of my own—Nick always said I wore my heart on my sleeve—” She was definitely rambling. Blame it on her grief—she couldn’t stop. “But you are and always have been an enigma, Deacon. Your face, your hair…hell, your _real_ age,” her eyes darted over his face as her heart raced loud enough she could hear it echoing in her skull. “Your _name_.”

His reaction wasn’t subtle that time. Deacon pulled away, and Madelyn feared she’d crossed a line and offended him. But he didn’t storm out of the room—rather, he dug through his coat and jacket pockets, muttering something incoherent under his breath until he pulled free a leather billfold with a triumphant sort of grin. He placed it in her hands as if she’d asked for it.

“Go on,” he encouraged with a sideways smirk.

Madelyn didn’t move an inch, only taking a quick glance at the wallet before meeting his face again. “What—”

“You could’ve lifted that off of me at any time,” he interrupted, gesturing to the faded black material. “Looked at my ID and taken some money while you’re at it. All in a day’s work for a _spy_.”

She frowned—it seemed honesty for him was as bad as pulling teeth. Her legal studies were easier than this. Madelyn decided to call his bluff, turning over the billfold in her hand. “A spy like you would obviously carry more than one identification.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” he agreed with a nod. “But one of them is bound to be legitimate. Even a no-good scoundrel like me needs a clean copy for official reasons—never know when you’re going to end up in a pickle or interrogated by some _charming_ blonde.”

Madelyn, understandably, had doubts as her irritation lingered. Even if she wanted to take a look, could she really open what was akin to opening Pandora’s box? Did she _really_ want to know? What if this was just another elaborate trick? Deacon titled his head just enough that she caught a glimpse of his eyes in the low light of the room. He was serious now, all trace of humor erased from his expression.

“I trust you.”

A shockwave rippled through her body causing a deep warmth to radiate in her chest. He might as well have told her—

Madelyn blinked hard, shaking the idea from her mind. One step at a time. _Trust_. He slowly circled around her to be closer to Drummer Boy’s bedside, and she turned to watch his movements, still hesitating to flip open the leather billfold. Deacon leaned over the hospital bed, as if to verify the agent wasn’t secretly awake and eavesdropping on their conversation. She sat back down in the nearby chair before giving into her curiosity.

She wasn’t sure what a typical man’s wallet was supposed to contain, but Deacon’s was full of various cards and trinkets—paper receipts and scribbled notes, raffle tickets of undetermined origin. Just as she predicted, and he admitted to, there were multiple state identification cards. Many were for Massachusetts, but there was one for Virginia, and one for Washington D.C.—unsurprisingly with the obviously fake name of _George Washington_.

Madelyn flicked through the paper cards, finding humor in some of the clever names and disguises— _Horatio Williams_ from Worcester County, _Simon Rock_ from Plymouth, _Guy Granger_ from Richmond, and _Harry Morgan_ from Nantucket. It wasn’t until she settled on a well-faded card that she gave pause. The Deacon in the black-and-white picture was recognizable, but only because she’d seen him without his usual pompadour wig and sunglasses. The full name wasn’t visible, worn from many years of handling but she saw enough of the bold lettering— _Johnathan Daniel_. She knew immediately it wasn’t a fake.

“Old testament,” she muttered, half-jokingly, under her breath. At least he hadn’t lied about his Catholic upbringing. Madelyn looked up to find him whispering— _praying_ —as he gently held onto Drummer Boy’s arm, his other hand resting against the other man’s shoulder. The sight was unexpected, to say the least, and gave her insight that perhaps their relationship stretched beyond the Railroad too.

“Drummer Boy— _Robby_ ,” she corrected herself. “He wasn’t lying when he said John D formed the Railroad.”

Deacon shrugged, glancing at her over his shoulder, as if he expected her to say that. “He wasn’t,” he confirmed, plainly. He didn’t even ask when, or _why_ Drummer Boy told her such information. “John D didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” Madelyn knew the history, thanks to the stories and a little digging of her own. “But Wyatt isn’t around anymore, now is he?”

“He isn’t.”

“And John D?” she asked tentatively.

Deacon grinned, if only for a fleeting moment. “He’s around.”

It was confirmation enough, and Madelyn decided not to pry for a straight answer—she’d gotten plenty from him already when he confirmed his trust. Now was not the time to cross boundaries, even as more unanswered questions rattled through her mind. With a deep and steadying breath, she allowed herself to become content with the knowledge that she was one of the lucky few—if not the only one—who knew this truth.

The silence was interrupted by a soft grumbling as Drummer Boy gradually regained consciousness. Madelyn abruptly stood, dropping Deacon’s wallet into the chair and rushing to the bedside to ensure he was okay. It took several moments for him to blink the exhaustion from his eyes, and he cleared his throat a few times before relaxing against the pillows again. The Railroad agent lazily glanced up at the two, flashing Madelyn a groggy smile. When Drummer Boy looked at Deacon, his face scrunched up, stuck between a frown and a glare.

“You still owe me,” he mumbled, causing Deacon to softly laugh. “ _Two dollars_.”  
  


* * *

  
The moon still hung high in the sky by the time Madelyn and Deacon left the New England Medical Center, though she wasn’t entirely sure of how much time had passed since she first left the agency, visited Nate’s grave, and returned to her apartment, only to be shot at by an unknown assailant—it had been a long day. All she knew was that her body ached, and that she was desperate for sleep.

After a short taxi ride into the Fens district, Deacon navigated the two through a nondescript area. She lacked the energy to comment on allowing handsome men to lead her into strange alleyways, but the amusement still brought a smile to her face. Outside an old, brick apartment building she noticed two Railroad insignias itched into the wall—one for safehouse, and another for ally.

“Mercer?” she assumed.

He nodded, escorting her inside the building. “Home sweet home.”

Unlike her Cambridge apartment, the elevators there were in working order. Madelyn couldn’t help but yawn as she leaned against Deacon’s shoulder, hoping the safehouse had an ample supply of pillows. He slowly guided her drowsy form down the hallway to the correct door, propping her under his arm as he fished through his pockets for his keys.

“Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?” he teased as soon as he pushed the door open.

Madelyn snickered, and snagged the bag of her belongings from his arm. “Haven’t you learned by now I’m a capable woman?”

He laughed, allowing her to enter ahead of him into the apartment. It was just about the same size as hers, with a mirrored layout and less furniture. Seeing as it was meant as a halfway-house for weary and temporary travelers, it made sense that it wouldn’t feel as lived in. There was a couch, a record player, and a small bookshelf with an assortment of books. The kitchen was modest as well—a small island bar with a few leftover coffee cups and newspapers, as well as a cardboard box from the nearby pizzeria. 

Madelyn followed the pathway of the hallway to the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder to find Deacon loitering by the refrigerator. As soon as she was alone in the tiny, tiled room, she took several moments to examine herself in the mirror. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the last time she found herself covered in blood—a macabre thought—the hospital staff had done a decent job at cleaning washing away the evidence from her skin. But there she was with another ruined dress, stained and torn from where the bullet had grazed her shoulder.

She thought to check her wedding ring for streaks of red when she realized she wasn’t even wearing it. A flicker of guilt washed over her as she remembered she’d removed it before the undercover operation at Fort Hagen. Maybe she should be relieved it was still safe and sound at her apartment—not like Deacon would’ve snagged it off her jewelry stand. Madelyn decided to look through the bag to see what he _did_ grab. There were two dresses and stockings that complimented her current pair of heels, and she was grateful that they were appropriate for the May weather. Tucked beneath that was one of her silk nightgowns and matching robes, along with some undergarments. Rather than feel embarrassed, she could only sigh, appreciative that she had something comfortable and clean to change into.

She quickly kicked off her heels, leaving them at the foot of the sink as she removed the rest of her clothes. She draped her discarded dress and stockings over the shower curtain rod before slipping on the pale blue nightgown, securing the robe around her body with a tight knot. She wiggled her toes against the cool floor and sighed. With one last glance in the mirror to ensure she hadn’t missed an errant mark of blood, she flicked off the light and left the bathroom.

In the kitchen, Deacon was preparing two glasses of whiskey as he stood by the island bar, pausing in his actions to watch her slow approach. “Well now I feel overdressed.”

Ironic, considering she’d never seen him so _relaxed_. He had discarded his wool coat and suit jacket, left hanging over the back of the living room couch. Even his shoes were missing, and a cursory scan of the room didn’t give her any indication of where he’d placed them. Madelyn could only mimic his expression.

“You’re the one who packed my bag,” she replied. “I sense sabotage is at play.”

Deacon mocked offense. “I’d _never_.”

“Before you take the bed and resign me to the couch,” he continued, gaining her attention. He gestured to the freshly poured drinks and the pizza box. “I made a promise to a very pushy Mister Handy unit that you’d be fed, and I’m one to keep promises. Even if they are to robots with British accents.”

Madelyn laughed, imaging Codsworth’s worrying pestering. When her stomach growled, she decided that as tired as she was, sleep could wait. Deacon pulled out the barstool for her so she could sit before occupying the set next to her, sliding her the glass tumbler of whiskey and cardboard box of leftovers. She’d had worse meals but in that moment, cold pizza and alcohol was like _heaven_. Still, she could sense Deacon watching her carefully from the corner of her eye, and she sighed into her glass.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened,” she explained, nervously meeting his shielded gaze. “Not now, not when I’ll just have to repeat it all over again when we meet with the others in the morning or—” she glanced to the clock hanging on the wall and groaned. “In a few hours.”

Deacon didn’t push. “Whatever you need, Charmer.”

“How does the line go?” he mused. “ _You know how to whistle_ …”

“I thought _I_ was Bacall,” Madelyn joked mid-chew. “ _Mr. Bogart_.”

She hadn’t forgotten that conversation from their first meeting, a flirtatious tease of falling in love like two Hollywood starlets in the latest noir film. Madelyn would’ve never guessed that all these months later, it had played out exactly as predicted. She smiled, and so did he.

“Looks like we fell into the cliché after all,” she whispered, eyes darting across his face, lingering on his mouth. “What do you think?”

Deacon finished off his whiskey with a slow sip before answering. “Tu as de beaux yeux tu sais.”

Madelyn was momentarily taken aback, suddenly wishing she’d taken French as a foreign language in school instead of Gaelic—all her Irish relatives were deceased anyways, what was the point? Was Deacon deflecting again? Something about his tone and the way he turned towards her said otherwise. He used his legs to scoot her barstool closer to him, the movement causing her to lean forward and brace her palms flat against his chest so she wouldn’t smash her forehead against his nose. His hands came to rest on her waist as he gradually eased her closer.

“Si je te disais que tu avais un beau corps, tu m’en tiendrais rigueur?”

A question whispered against the shell of her ear that sent her heart racing, mind going blank as she only thought about Deacon’s heated breath along the column of her throat. Madelyn allowed herself to edge nearer to his body still until she was practically straddling his thigh, teetering on the edge of her chair, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders.

He continued murmuring what she assumed were sweet-nothings against her skin—though they could be nonsense and she’d still be melting in his hands. “On devrait t'arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique.”

“Est-ce que tu fais partie du menu?”

What about a menu? She pondered if what he was telling her bordered on filth, but the idea only excited her. Madelyn sharply inhaled, angling her neck to give him greater access despite the fact his lips hadn’t made direct contact with her skin. When he finally reached her mouth, he paused, one hand reaching up to hold the side of her face steady.

“Dis moi ce que tu veux,” he said. After a beat, he repeated himself, this time so she could understand. “Tell me what you want.”

Madelyn didn’t hesitate to move her hands to his face, fingers wrapping around the metal frame of his glasses before gently removing them, setting them down on the kitchen counter. She held his face with her palms, taking a long moment to stare deep into his steely blue eyes. It had been more than a month since she’d seen them like this, and yet it felt like she was seeing them for the first time—brilliant, vibrant and _beautiful_.

“You,” she breathed the answer, the most honest she’d felt in years. “Deacon, I want you.”

There was a glimmer to his eyes she couldn’t place as he briefly smirked before wordlessly closing the distance between them with a slow, but needy kiss. It didn’t take long at all for it to grow heated, the hand on her waist silently encouraging her to scoot closer until she was fully seated across his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Deacon balanced her against him as they hungrily kissed, a groan echoing in his throat as she frantically pushed the suspenders from his shoulders before moving her fingers to undo the buttons of his shirt. It seemed that now that the damn was broken, Madelyn couldn’t wait for the _rush_ —patience be damned. 

He matched her fervor, one hand darting to the silken knot at her waist and blinding tugging until he broke away from their kiss to glare down at the confusing tangle. With a curse he pulled open her robe and she shrugged it from her body, softly moaning as his lips instantly collided with the outline of her collarbone before the garment reached the floor. As Deacon kissed a trail along her skin, Madelyn threaded her hands through his hair, breathing a laugh when she remembered it was a wig. He didn’t seem to mind as she removed it—too preoccupied with leaving patterns on her neck—exposing the ginger locks she admired. Just as she returned to run her fingers through those soft waves, he leaned back out of reach. She didn’t have time to be confused as he hoisted her into his arms as he stood, holding her as if she weighed nothing.

Madelyn gasped and still clutched his arms in the fear that she’d be dropped. At first, she assumed he would carry her to the couch, or the bedroom, but he simply placed her on the island bar instead. With a sweep of his arm, he pushed away the clutter to make room for her body, thrilling her to the core. She watched as Deacon peeled off his dress shirt, moving her hands to his belt on the assumption—and perhaps eagerly—that they were to make love _right there_. He covered her hands with his own, stopping her with a soft chuckle, but it wasn’t meant to taunt her.

“Lie back,” he instructed, voice laced with desire.

Madelyn complied, swallowing down the last traces of anxiety as she eased back onto her elbows. She was so entranced by his actions that she almost forgot to breathe, eyes locked onto his face as his gaze raked over her body and the length of her legs. Deacon’s hands were soft as they traced up from her ankles to her calves and eventually to her thighs, gradually spreading apart her knees to make enough space for his body. Those striking eyes of his found hers as his hands trailed further, past the lace trim of her nightgown until heated fingers traced the outline of her underwear. Those same deft fingers pulled away the fabric just enough so he could touch, an agonizing drag along her already dampened folds. It was enough for Madelyn to completely collapse against the cold tile of the counter, tossing her head back as she moaned loudly. Just how touch starved had she been? 

“Don’t close your eyes,” Deacon said, and she desperately fought to snap them open as he continued, and then _stopped_.

She whimpered, almost against her own volition. He was already gradually sliding her underwear down her legs until they slipped off and to the floor. Instead of his hands, it was his mouth that followed the trail up her legs, and Madelyn was sure her heart was going to burst right out her chest. It didn’t take a _detective_ to know what he was planning, and the pure eroticism of it all—splayed out on a kitchen counter—made her skin prickle with arousal.

Deacon pushed up the silken fabric of her nightgown before hooking one knee around his shoulder, spreading her other thigh out so that his hand could easily trace along her skin. His fingers found her wet heat again, far from teasing as he probed her entrance, eliciting loader groans from her. Just as he found a steady rhythm, he replaced his hand with his mouth, and Madelyn could feel her stomach coiling at the sensation already. She was writhing, uncaring how unhinged she appeared, completely lost to the passion he was inflicting upon her. It was only fitting that the man who was so gifted at intrigue would be this talented with his mouth—Deacon was through, _relentless_.

Madelyn’s mind was a haze, and she couldn’t hear anything besides her own rapid pulse and intense breathing. No doubt she was chanting his name like a prayer, whispering quiet praises and pleadings that he wouldn’t stop because— _oh God_ —she was so close, and— _Jesus_ —she hadn’t felt so alive in _years_. There was more blasphemy and curses, and she was sure she was going to hell—maybe it was worth it—if this was what sin felt like.

When she came, it was blinding, and her entire body trembled uncontrollably as Deacon’s hands moved to cradle her, mouth unmoving from her core until she was spent. Madelyn still took several minutes to regain her bearings, staring up at the ceiling in delirious wonder.

“Deacon?” she titled her head to find him resting against the counter, arms draped across her body as his hands rubbed slowly up and down her sides. He glanced up at her with a lazy, self-satisfied sort of smile, and she decided he deserved it.

“I’m here,” he answered.

She softly laughed. “I’d like you to carry me now.”

Deacon was slow to move but eventually leaned back, grasping her hands to help her gradually sit up straight. He hooked one arm under her knees, the other around her torso and gave her a sideways glance so she’d hold onto his shoulder for balance. Madelyn again found herself amused at how easy he made it seem, pausing on his way out of the kitchen to turn off the front room lights. They made their way towards the bedroom in the darkness, though Deacon didn’t appear perturbed, as if he had every inch of the place memorized by touch.

Compared to the rest of the apartment, the bedroom filled more belongings and looked like it had a regular visitor. There were more books scattered there than in the front room, and several bags of clothes that had been diligently organized. Madelyn didn’t have to ask to know the regular tenant was Deacon. The shades of the window were open, allowing the light of the moon to cast a soft light of white into the room and across the unmade bed. He placed her there, and she stared up at him with curious eyes as he seemed to hesitate for the first time that evening as he slowly unbuckled his belt, sliding down his pants when there was enough slack.

“We can stop, if you want,” Deacon suggested. “The bed is yours. Couch is more comfortable than it looks.”

Madelyn was surprised, and while she appreciated the gesture, she’d expressed her desires. “No.”

“Thought you might say that,” he smirked. He removed his undershirt and tossed it to the floor before sitting on the edge of the mattress, reaching down to pluck the socks off his feet.

When he turned to her, Madelyn was struck by the man she saw in the glow of the moonlight, practically a stranger and yet somebody she trusted her entire life with. Against common sense she’d gone and fallen in love with a beautiful mystery of a man, and nothing thrilled her more. She sat up to meet his advances, kissing him desperately as he worked to lift her nightdress up and off her body.

Madelyn removed her own bra, uncaring if he could do it just as quickly. At this rate, she just wanted to be naked and beneath him as soon as possible. Deacon must’ve found the action amusing, softly laughing against her mouth as he broke away from their kiss to lift off from the bed to discard his briefs. She took the opportunity to lean back against the pillows, pushing back the sudden realization that she was about to have sex for the first time in _years_ —the first time since—

 _No_ , she reminded herself, closing her eyes tight. There was no time for that kind of guilt, or for those kinds of memories to permeate this space. With a steadying breath, she blinked open her eyes to find Deacon perched over her, the warmth of his body causing her earlier excitement to spike anew. He lowered himself closer, and she let out a shudder at the feel of his hardened arousal at the junction of her thighs.

“Je t’adore,” he whispered against her ear.

Madelyn turned her head so that she could look at him, lock eyes—blue on blue. She wrapped one leg around his, silently encouraging him as she hooked her arms around his shoulders. “Deacon, _please_.”

That’s all it took for him to slowly sink into her, the air stolen from her lungs as he became fully seated within her. Deacon moved slow in those initial moments, almost agonizingly so, staying close to her body as he steadily rolled his hips against hers. It wasn’t until she let out a strangled moan and grasped the hair along his scalp that he dared to increase his speed, fully retreating with each thrust before pushing back in. There were more hushed, incoherent and foreign words exchanged, more silent prayers and whispered names against mouths between hungry kisses.

Eventually he leaned back onto his haunches and the angle created a delightful increase to her pleasure and judging by the way Deacon panted and struggled to keep his groans contained, he felt the same. Madelyn felt admired under his gaze, her skin aflame as his blown pupils darted across her naked flesh, fingers digging tightly into her hips as he gradually lost control of his thrusts. She’d been so caught up in her own past that she hardly considered—or remembered—that it had possibly been a long time for _him_ as well.

“Come here,” she beckoned him back to her arms and he practically collapsed against her, their limbs tangling together as they lost themselves to each other.

It didn’t take more than one, two— _three_ punctual thrusts for Madelyn to snap, crying out as she came with a trembling force. Deacon followed shortly thereafter, clinging tightly to her as he snapped his hips tightly to her with a guttural groan. The two stayed coiled together for the next several moments until the spasms passed, Deacon pulling away with a deep exhale as he withdrew to collapse at her side.

Neither said a word as they came down from their individual highs of ecstasy, the room slowly growing quiet as their breathing returned to normal. Madelyn was the first to roll onto her side to face him, and for all that they had shared in the past and _just now_ , she felt strangely _bashful_. Deacon was already gazing at her with an expression she couldn’t place, the moonlight twinkling in his eyes. Still, the two remained quiet, only regarding each other with similar smiles. He silently urged her to snuggle close against his chest, wrapping their still warm bodies in a thin sheet.

Madelyn still wasn’t sure what the nature of their relationship was, but that was a conversation for another day. She wasn’t about to ruin the moment with a potentially tremulous conversation—not everything needed to be talked through, not _everything_ needed an immediate answer. It was well enough to just be happy in the moment. And despite all the other worries in her life— _God_ —was she happy. She could feel sleep finally calling her into the darkness.

Before she succumbed, she smiled, content to be wrapped up in his arms. “Goodnight, Deacon.”

She convinced herself she was dreaming when he responded minutes, or maybe hours later.

“Goodnight, _Madelyn_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will give five internet hugs to the first person who can identify the Easter Eggs linked to Deacon’s aliases. They were a delight to come up with, and despite their randomness, were not chosen at random! 
> 
> Disclaimer that I do not speak French. I am thankful to Glowstickia for the resources she sent me that helped with the latter half of this chapter. Also, I meant to mention this last week, but I am also super grateful for the fan-art Mutantenfisch created, inspired by this fic. You can peep his art [here](https://mutantenfisch.tumblr.com/post/622911084935905280/i-lied-yesterday-i-just-couldnt-stop-with-this).
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	17. Not Quite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madelyn tries to hold onto the happiness morning brings before returning to reality. A surprising visitor arrives at the Valentine Detective Agency with insider information on the Institute’s activities. The Decoration Day festivities at city hall dissolve into chaos, and the agency must navigate a hostage crisis with the help of trustworthy allies. Later, Madelyn and Nick discuss the future of their investigation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _I Got Rhythm—_ Gene Kelly  
> 🎵 _Let There Be Love—_ Nat King Cole  
> 

“ _We thought you’d been killed_.” - Willi Hilfe, as played by Carl Esmond

“ _Not quite_.” - Stephen Neale as played by Ray Milland ( _Ministry of Fear_ , 1944)

* * *

**May 30th, 1958**

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Deacon’s voice was the first thing Madelyn heard as she returned to consciousness. She could feel the sunlight on her face through the open window shades, but it was difficult to determine how much time had passed since she fell asleep. The bed was still warm, the thick blanket wrapped around her body giving her a safer sense of security than any gun ever could. She was still tucked close against Deacon’s side, head resting against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing in her ear. As he spoke again, the words reverberated through his sternum, causing her to stir—who was he talking to?

Madelyn fluttered her eyes open and slowly craned her head back to find him bobbing his head in silent agreement, the telephone receiver in his hand and pressed to his ear as the muffled voice on the other end continued to speak. Her eyes followed the curly wire to the phone base on the nightstand and wondered just how exhausted she had to have been to not to hear it ring. Using the arm wrapped around her shoulders, Deacon reached up with his free hand to idly toy with her hair, tucking golden waves back behind her ear.

“I’m looking at her right now,” he said with a grin. She returned the gesture with a sleepy smile of her own.

“Were you up to talking after being shot?” Deacon asked rather forcefully, and Madelyn creased her eyebrows together in concern as she realized immediately he was talking to Nick. “Let alone, walk.”

She gave his shoulder a gentle tap, indicating he was laying it on too thick.

Deacon gave a little shrug, the back of his fingers stoking gently against her cheek. “We’ll be there.”

Madelyn moved with him as he stretched back to hang up the phone with a sigh, running his hand through his errant hair and leaving his palm pressed against his forehead. She snuggled her chin against the warmth of his bare skin, a small part of her mind still amazed that she’d woken up in his embrace.

“Is everything okay?” she asked, immediately realizing that was always a loaded question, especially in their line of work. “What did Nick want?” 

“Missed our rendezvous,” he explained, angling his head so he could look at her. The sun was shining across his light-auburn hair, eyes gleaming a brilliant shade of blue as they met hers. She felt a sense of Déjà vu, but their closeness made all the difference. He flashed a lazy smile. “I knew it was a mistake giving him the safehouse number.”

“They’re expecting us, then?”

Madelyn’s question hung in the air for a long moment, neither wanting to acknowledge that they couldn’t stay wrapped up in each other’s arms forever. As wonderful as it sounded to linger, to bask in the morning glow and pick up where they’d left off, there were more important matters at hand. There wasn’t any time to discuss what their actions meant for their relationship—if it meant anything at all. Deacon leaned to brush his nose along her hairline before pressing a soft kiss against her forehead, chasing those thoughts of doubt away.

“You stay put,” he instructed. “I’ll fetch your bag from the bathroom.”

Reluctantly, she let him slip away from her and the mattress, watching him intently as he rounded the bed and collected clothing from the floor. For being a man that hid his true identity behind a myriad of lies and disguises, Deacon didn’t appear to be shy about his nude state, pausing at the nearby dresser as if to give Madelyn a few extra moments of admiration before he dressed. It all felt so familiar, so domestic, and she recognized that wasn’t the first time she’d felt that way with him, and it certainly— _hopefully_ —wouldn’t be the last.

As soon as he had on a clean pair of underwear and had finished pulling on an undershirt, he crossed over to the small closet, pausing to pick up her nightgown and bra. He inspected the garments with raised eyebrows, as if she wasn’t resting naked beneath the sheets. Madelyn loudly laughed as he tossed them in her direction, the silk falling across her face and eyes. When she snatched it away, she found him just as amused, finishing up the buttons on his dress shirt before hoisting up his suit pants from the floor.

Madelyn took the opportunity to sit up, allowing the sheet to fall and expose her chest as she pulled on the piece of lingerie. Deacon glanced at her with the same curious expression as before, his movements slowing as he adjusted his suspenders and belt. The action was all the more thrilling that she could see the hint of desire sparkle through his eyes, yet disappointment fluttered through her chest—she knew there was no time to act upon whatever devious thoughts were floating through his head.

Deacon left the bedroom with a mischievous sort of grin, returning moments later with the canvas bag of her belongings and the heels she’d left by the bathroom sink. He left them on the foot of the bed and gestured to the mirror hanging over the closet door before jutting his thumb over his shoulder.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” he said. “It’s a damn shame we don’t have time, otherwise I’d cook you breakfast.”

Madelyn contemplated suggesting they throw caution to the wind—they were late to the agency already, what would another hour cost? More questions, and more suspicion was likely—something she wasn’t ready to deal with, _especially_ from a nosy, gossiping reporter. She sighed, wistfully.

“Next time.”

Deacon appeared to like the sound of that. “Next time.”

As he walked away and down the hall, she could hear him quietly humming, if not whistling a familiar tune. “ _J’ai ma chérie_ —”

“Who could ask for anything more?” Madelyn softly sang under her breath, a delightful warmth taking root in her chest. There was a pause before more distant humming and French lyrical singing, causing her to giggle behind her hand—it was certainly the _last_ thing Madelyn expected from Deacon. It made her think that maybe, just maybe, it was what true happiness was meant to feel like.

With visions of Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing in her mind, she pushed herself from the mattress, and began to dress, rummaging through the bag Deacon had brought from her apartment for a pair of underwear and stockings before deciding on an outfit. She opted for the red dress he’d packed—while blue was her favorite color, Madelyn wondered if her luck would prove better in something else. She couldn’t afford to ruin anymore dresses with blood and dirt—or bullets, for that matter.

She took some time to examine her appearance in the nearby mirror, tugging out the wrinkles of her skirt to no avail, reapplying some of her makeup and adjusting her curls the best she could without the proper tools. Heels on, Madelyn grabbed her purse and headed for the hallway, leaving the rest of her belongings behind—she had a feeling she’d be returning to the safehouse sooner, rather than later.

In the front room, she found Deacon fully dressed in his suit jacket and shoes, the styled black wig replaced atop his head and darkened shades covering his eyes. Madelyn would be the liar if she said it wasn’t a disheartening sight, especially after being spoiled by what laid beneath. Instead of succumbing to disappointment, she focused on the still quick-beating thump of her heart and the anxious flutter of butterflies in her stomach—a feeling that she’d latch onto in the hopes it could carry her through what was to come.

“Shall we?” she asked as she approached where he stood near the bar island.

Deacon was chuckling as he turned, her underwear from the previous evening— _morning_ —hanging from his fingers in offering. “Drop something, Charmer?”

Instead of shock or embarrassment, Madelyn could only laugh, snatching them from his hands and tucking them away in her purse for safe keeping. Better there than laying about on the kitchen floor for anyone to find.

“How kind of you to have found them,” she joked, realizing her cheeks grew hotter the longer he stared in her direction with that devilish expression. “How will I ever repay you?”

She’d said it sarcastically enough, but it hardly mattered. Deacon arched up one eyebrow and titled his head to the side in a shrug. “I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“We can discuss it later. Say, over a few drinks and some _bourguignon_?”

If Madelyn didn’t know any better, she’d think he was propositioning her for a date. The joy she felt was immeasurable, so intense it was latched onto her soul. She decided to play coy, flashing a demure smile. “I’m sure _something_ can be arranged.”   
  


* * *

Ellie was not in her usual chipper mood when Madelyn and Deacon finally arrived at the Valentine Detective Agency. Any other day and the secretary could be found perched behind the front lobby desk with a cheery smile as she handed off phone messages and sorted the incoming mail. That morning, however, Miss Perkins appeared woefully uneasy, the counter a disarray of newspapers and scribbled memos.

“Madelyn!” she scrambled to stand up, rounding to meet them. “Mister Deacon, a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise,” he replied, nodding towards the closed office door. “What’s the temperature like?”

Ellie stared at him in momentary confusion before shaking her head. “Nick needs a new pack of cigarettes and Piper is in one of her moods—”

“When isn’t she?” Madelyn interjected, earning a half-hearted smile from the secretary and a smirk from her Railroad partner.

“They were here when I arrived this morning,” Ellie continued with a small frown. “Must’ve pulled an overnight after returning from the crime—I mean your—”

The secretary cut herself off, a glimmer of sadness shining through her eyes. Madelyn didn’t say anything, suddenly embarrassed about what she’d been up to throughout the evening while her friends frantically worried about her welfare. She had allowed herself to succumb to passion and romance, selfishly blocking everything else out. It was any wonder the _temperature_ was what it was. Piper was likely growing impatient as the investigation into the Institute stalled. Nick probably wasn’t coping any better, now that the Shaun Pearlman case had transformed from a missing person’s case into _another_ government conspiracy.

No sense in keeping them waiting any longer.

“We’ll need a lot more coffee,” she sighed, moving through the lobby.

Ellie nodded in earnest, scampering away to the small galley. “Yes ma’am!”

It wasn’t surprising that when Madelyn entered Nick’s office, she found Piper pacing with a frenzied expression, her red coat tossed over the nearest armchair and Mary-Jane heels kicked to the side. Her black curls were tied up in a loose bun and it was obvious that she’d gotten just as little sleep as Madelyn had—for entirely different reasons, of course. Nick looked just as exhausted, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed with his eyes closed as he listened to the reporter mutter off information from her notepad. Just like when the agency was in the midst of any other case, there were files and reports strewn about, but this time the mess was far more chaotic, with stacks of paperwork littering the ground, photos and newspaper clippings piled on a chair.

“…we’re running in circles—” Piper stopped midsentence and mid-step when she noticed Madelyn standing in the doorway, her expression softening. “Blue, thank _God_ you’re alright.”

“I’m still standing,” Madelyn replied, voice shaky. She wasn’t sure why she felt so nervous, or why this suddenly felt like the _last_ place she wanted to be. “It’ll take a lot more than a bullet to kill me.”

Nick didn’t take too kindly to the morbid statement, the hopeful glimmer when he first saw her disappearing with a frown. Madelyn gulped, and felt the guilt slowly start to consume her as she quickly stepped to her usual spot across from his desk, hesitating before finally sitting down in the armchair. Considering what had happened to Jenny, it was a cruel thing to say. He’d lost his fiancé, the love of his life, and was still healing from the tragedy. The detective wasn’t the best at expressing his emotions, but she was willing to bet he wasn’t keen on losing his _partner_ too. His gaze softened when she finally sought the courage to lift her eyes to look at him, expression one of sympathy rather than disappointment. Before she could say anything, Piper scoffed in the direction of the doorway. 

“If it isn’t _Mister Bond_ himself,” she said in a mocking tone when she realized Deacon entering the room with Ellie, each carrying a tray full of coffee and an assortment of cups.

Madelyn didn’t even notice he’d stayed behind to assist the secretary but was thankful as soon as he moved to set down the tray between the chairs and passed her a piping hot ceramic cup, already prepared the way she liked. His fingers lingered against her hand and he kept his head turned towards her face instead of Piper as he spoke.

“I prefer Johnny Fedora.”

Madelyn smiled, sensing the heat rushing across her skin from their point of contact. Deacon slowly moved away then, leaning against the back wall as he typically did during agency meetings, sipping at his coffee with a smirk aimed at the reporter. Piper watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, always overly suspicious of the Railroad spy. 

“You know, for a woman who was just shot, you’re positively _glowing_ —”

“ _Piper_!” Nick interrupted, warning her not to start on another one of her passive-aggressive attacks on Deacon. Madelyn sighed, shaking her head as she took a long drink of the hot beverage, wishing there weren’t so much animosity between her friends and the man she loved—not that any of them, including _him_ , knew that.

“Always been a Dick Tracy man, myself,” Nick added, defusing the situation with a soft chuckle.

Madelyn glanced up to find him quietly thanking Ellie for his own cup of coffee before meeting her gaze, the two sharing a silent, subtle exchange. He didn’t have to be as scrutinizing with his expression, but the gleam in his light green eyes told her _he knew_. Guess that’s why he was the best detective in town—the perceptive _bastard_ —she smiled, even as she blushed.

“How you feeling, doll?” he asked quietly, as if she was the only one in the room.

“Could’ve used a few more hours of sleep,” she answered honestly, though the coffee was helping to jumpstart her faculties. “Ellie said the two of you were here all evening?”

Nick looked put-out, sulking at their secretary who simply shrugged as she left the room. He exhaled a deep breath, reaching up to rub at his jaw and neck. “Been a long night, hasn’t it?”

“We were trying to figure out who would be brazen enough to kill you in your own home,” Piper explained, lifting her notepad for good measure. “Unfortunately, the pool of suspects is larger than anticipated.”

Madelyn solemnly nodded—she’d come to the same conclusion while recovering at the hospital—no doubt their lists shared similar names. This was the part she was dreading, and she secretly wished they could skip over _interrogating_ her about what occurred at her apartment the previous evening. Just as she resigned herself to start from the very beginning, they were interrupted by Ellie pushing open the office door once more—maybe miracles _did_ exist.

“Sorry for the interruption, but there’s a man here to see you,” she explained. “A soldier.”

The room fell silent and a shiver ran down the entire length of Madelyn’s body—at first, it was an overwhelming sense of fear. The only soldier she could conjure at that moment in her sleep deprived mind was the very man the agency was hunting— _Kellogg_. The rational side of her brain quickly caught up with her wild thoughts, deciding that he wouldn’t just waltz into the agency without a fight. Ellie stepped aside to lead the man in and the reality of who it really was didn’t bring any more comfort. If anything, fear spiked through Madelyn’s mind, and she nearly dropped her cup of coffee to the ground.

“Good morning,” Lieutenant Danse greeted in the doorway, reaching up to remove his cap uniform.

Sensing the tension, Ellie spun around on her heels. “I’ll bring more coffee.”

“I’m here on good faith,” the Lieutenant spoke after clearing his throat. “Despite the irrefutable fact that I can have the lot of you arrested for trespassing on military grounds. Not to mention the theft of confidential documents, smuggled offsite by way of _espionage_.”

“I shouldn’t need to remind you what happened to the Rosenbergs,” he continued.

Piper didn’t take to the intimidation. “You’ve got a lot of nerve—”

“You’re welcome to join your comrades in prison on conspiracy charges, Miss Wright,” he countered disparagingly.

“Don’t talk to me about _conspiracy_ , big guy,” Piper snapped back, ignoring that the Lieutenant knew her name.

Madelyn didn’t know what to make of the exchange, still confused by his sudden appearance. She glanced over her shoulder and found that Deacon’s neutral expression had shifted ever so slightly, his shielded gaze unmoving from Lieutenant Danse. If he was worried, he’d never show it so publicly, but she could tell he wasn’t comfortable. Nick was just as stoic, and Madelyn decided their silence wasn’t helping, just as much as Piper’s arguing was.

“Where is this _good faith_ you’re talking about?” she quipped, surprising even herself.

Lieutenant Danse straightened, stepping further into the room as Ellie returned with a fresh pot of coffee and a cup for him. He anxiously thanked the secretary before looking at Madelyn with mix of concern and frustration.

“There has been some unusual activity occurring at Fort Hagen,” he began, eyebrows knitted together. “Given my ranking, you’d think I’d be privy to such activities, but I’ve been suspiciously prohibited. That hasn’t stopped me from…”

He trailed and Deacon chirped up from where he stood. “Snooping?”

“Hm,” the Lieutenant did not appear comfortable with the term but nodded. Madelyn motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite from her and he reluctantly complied. “While I’m not certain about the specifics of what you took from the fort, it isn’t a coincidence that you showed up when you did. I’ll admit the three of you might have been successful with the ruse, if it weren’t for Miss James—”

Lieutenant Danse gestured towards her, the use of her married name jarring until she remembered she’d used it as the alias when sneaking into Fort Hagen. Still, her heart continued to race, and she had to clench her jaw to prevent the sudden hot sting of tears from spilling over. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice.

“—apologies, _Miss_ _Hardy_ —and the attack on her life. The Boston Bugle ran an article with a photo of you and Detective Valentine.”

Even she was surprised by that information. “They what?”

“At least they got my good side this time,” Nick grumbled as he lifted up the morning edition from his desk— _Chaos in Cambridge_ —not the most original headline, but Madelyn was just as glad the photo used was flattering enough.

“What kind of _unusual activity_ are we talking about, big guy?” Piper questioned, steering the conversation back on track.

Lieutenant Danse grimaced at the newfound nickname, shifting uncomfortably in the armchair. “The Fort has had an unprecedented increase of visitors from MIT as of late. Scientists and researchers working in tandem with our own military personnel on classified projects.”

Nick and Madelyn exchanged a knowing look, though she quickly returned her line of sight to the soldier in the room, not wanting to give away that their investigation— _undercover operation_ —had revealed more or less the same information.

“Their presence was questionable, but brass didn’t appreciate my concerns and froze me out. I should consider myself lucky General Maxson didn’t reassign me to Fort Irwin in the Mojave,” he scowled into his coffee cup. “I uncovered files that implicate the Institute scientists are designing specialized technology to implant within US soldiers.”

“Are you sure you didn’t read a comic book?” Deacon joked, even though it aligned with what they’d found in Kellogg’s stolen file.

“This isn’t fiction,” Lieutenant Danse argued. “They want to create super soldiers, yes, but ones they can control with some kind of… _brain chip_.”

Piper snapped her fingers together, the sound echoing throughout the room. “I _told_ you those Institute bastards were up to something.”

“Does the name Kellogg mean anything to you?” Madelyn asked before Lieutenant Danse could question the reporter’s outburst. She figured it was as good a time as any to fill him in on what they’d discovered. He shook his head and remained quiet as Piper recapped the details of the Shaun Pearlman case, the investigation into the Institute, and the hunt for Kellogg. She tried to be succinct but mention _one_ brainwashed maniac and she was bound to rant about her theories on Mayor McDonough.

“…am I forgetting anything?”

“That isn’t the extent of their experiments,” Lieutenant Danse clarified after a long period of silence. All eyes were on him as he continued. “When the scientists first arrived at Fort Hagen, they brought an advanced piece of robotics with them. It appeared to be built like any RobCo assaultron unit, but had been reprogramed with a sophisticated artificial intelligence program that could—”

“Predict the future?” Deacon interjected.

“Y— _yes_ ,” the Lieutenant responded, alarmed by what Deacon said. “How do you know about the PAM Initiative?”

Madelyn had read about it in files Tinker Tom declassified. PAM was originally created by the Defense Intelligence Agency and housed at the Switchboard blacksite until the location was abandoned during the war. Sometime later, the Railroad moved in. A short time after that, they were _forced_ to leave by an unknown party. Somewhere along that timeline, PAM disappeared from the underground bunker and fell into the Institute’s hands. Deacon claimed no knowledge of the AI unit, but Madelyn knew better than to believe such a thinly veiled lie.

“A wild guess,” he answered.

Madelyn wanted to know what Lieutenant Danse’s motives were for divulging such information so willingly. He’d threatened _them_ —thinly enough—with court martial, but he was the one in danger of treason. If anything, it made the man believable, and trustworthy. _Trust_ —maybe she needed to hold back on that last part, in case she ended up on the wrong end of a pistol… _again_.

When the phone rang, Nick dismissed it with the wave of his hand, and Ellie could be heard taking the call in the front lobby. He studied the other man’s face as he spoke. “We could use your help with this case, Lieutenant,” he started. “Always good to have an inside man.”

Before the Lieutenant could answer, there was a scampering of heels against the wood flooring as Ellie appeared, looking frantic as she braced herself in the doorway. Nick stared at her, bewildered and clearly irritated that he’d been interrupted. “What is it now?”

“Hancock,” she said, which didn’t help matters, Nick’s expression going flat. Ellie waved her hands towards the phone and then to the front door. “He said to get downtown as soon as possible.”

“Ellie—”

“Don’t _Ellie_ me,” she interrupted with a huff. “It’s the mayor! He’s holding a hostage at city hall!”

Piper let out a strangled, pained sort of laugh. “I _told_ you.”   
  


* * *

  
All the major streets leading to city hall had been closed down in anticipation for the Decoration Day festivities, delaying the group’s efforts to reach downtown. They were forced to run along the barricaded sidewalks, fighting through the ever-increasing spectators that had gathered for the day’s events. It didn’t go unnoticed in their mad dash that there was a suspicious lack of police presence—unusual for such a large occasion—especially concerning if the hostage crisis was as real as Hancock made it out to be. A sickening anxiety threatened to overwhelm Madelyn as they reached the town center—there would be no celebrations that day.

A large group of people were waiting on the streets and sidewalk outside city hall, their hushed rumblings and anxious glances indicative that _something_ had occurred. But what? There was unrest, random citizens shouting for the mayor—for anybody inside to return to the empty stage and explain themselves. In the midst of the chaos, Madelyn found herself separated from the others, random limbs shoving her unceremoniously to the foreground until she was pinned against a wooden barricade. She nearly lost herself to the confusion, swallowed up in the crowd when she turned to find a familiar face.

“Miss Hardy,” Preston Garvey gave her a friendly smile before offering his hand to assist her over the barrier between them. “Wish the circumstances were different, but it’s good to see you again.”

“What exactly _are_ the circumstances?” she asked, observing the rifle slung over his shoulders and glancing towards the few armed officers that stood on the city hall steps. “Where is Hancock? More importantly, where is the Boston P.D?”

Piper’s voice could be heard, shouting for the crowd to make room for her and Nick as they approached the barricade. The reporter quickly hauled herself over to join Madelyn and Preston on the other side, but Nick hesitated, gripping the wood in his hands. His uneasy focus on the stone stairway made it clear he was reliving the past—the last time they were here, Eddie Winter had died by his hand. It seemed history was doomed to repeat itself over and over. Deacon appeared soon after, prompting the detective to finally move past the barrier and away from the throng of people. 

Preston frowned as he motioned to his surroundings. “It’s just Sullivan’s taskforce and whatever Minutemen I could assemble on such short notice.”

“What happened?” Piper asked eagerly.

“Mayor McDonough was due to make a speech, just as he does every Decoration Day,” Preston began, motioning to the podium. Only then was it obvious that some sort of commotion had occurred, decorations and chairs toppled over, microphone wires left in a tangled mess across the makeshift stage. “It was like something spooked him. One minute he’s shaking government officials’ hands, the next he’s running off the stage and back inside city hall, pushing people down as he went.”

“If you’re wondering where Boston P.D. are, they were never here to begin with. It was just Sullivan and his men assigned to this route,” he added.

“How convenient,” Nick muttered through gritted teeth. “Where’s _Danny Boy_ now?”

“Inside, with Hancock and a few others, trying to talk the mayor down,” Preston answered. “We think he’s—”

The muffled but powerful _bang_ of a gun echoed out from the building and into the plaza sending the already tense crowd into a panic. It was only when Madelyn found herself hunched over and near the ground that she realized that both Nick and Deacon and moved to protect her from the faraway threat. She should’ve been grateful, considering she’d only just barely survived an attack on her life, but instead, she found herself frustrated. They knew better—she could take care of herself.

With two jutting elbows she pushed them off of her, quickly digging through her purse to retrieve her pistol before starting up the stairs. She called back to the group but didn’t wait to see if they were following. “Come on.”

As soon as she was inside the main building, Madelyn rushed across the marble tile in the lobby, and headed straight for the shouting voices and noise resonating from the nearby hall. As soon as she rounded the corner, three rapid-fire shots came from the end of the corridor, the bullets ricocheting and shattering light fixtures before sinking into the walls. This time, Madelyn welcomed being tackled to the floor, breathless and flustered as she craned her head to see Deacon keeping them hidden behind a decorative cabinet.

“I am _sick_ of being shot at!” Nick shouted, mumbling a curse as he wedged himself strategically on the opposite side of the hallway. As he pulled his revolver from its holster, Piper rushed to crouch behind him.

A familiar voice called out to them. “You can…say that again.”

Madelyn leaned out of cover just enough to see Danny Sullivan sitting down on the ground, propped up against a knocked over desk so that it doubled as a barricade. The Sergeant groaned, lolling his head to the side as he peeled his hand away to reveal the bloodied wound on his side. She gasped and would’ve scrambled over if it weren’t for Deacon keeping her firmly planted where she was.

Hancock knelt by Sullivan’s side, the most frustrated she’d ever seen him. It didn’t stop the _good_ McDonough brother from flashing her a fleeting, cheeky grin. “Hey there, sunshine. Long time, no see,” he said teasingly. 

“ _John_ ,” Nick pulled his attention away from Madelyn. “What the hell happened here?”

There was more yelling from the end of the hall where two of Sullivan’s officers were trying to breach the locked door to the mayor’s office. “Get your ass out here, McDonough! You’ve got a lot of explaining to do!”

“Everything’s fine!” came the mayor’s nervous but agitated, muffled voice. “This is all just…a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding, my ass,” Hancock muttered, shifting to help Sullivan sit up as properly as the man could to ease the pain. “He went batshit—rambling like a madman and running straight for his office. Didn’t know he carried a gun until he started shooting after me and the boys.”

Sullivan groaned at that, grimacing as he tried and failed to move. Hancock silently encouraged him to remain still while Madelyn looked on, agonized that somebody else she knew had been hurt.

“Makes me think all that talk about MIT and their brain experiments is true,” Hancock continued, shaking his head in disbelief. “You were right, Piper. Don’t let it go to your head.”

The reporter said nothing at first, too alarmed by the reality of the situation as she stared blankly at Sullivan and his injury. She didn’t sound nearly as excited as before when she spoke. “I was right.”

“And he has a hostage?” Madelyn asked, craning her neck to peer down the corridor. Two uniformed officers were positioned on either side, still struggling to get through the barred door.

“Geneva, his secretary,” Hancock answered with a nod. They focused on Sullivan as he slouched back, struggling to stay alert or even conscious. “He won’t make it out of here unless we do something, _now_.”

Before he could say anything else, he was on the move, rounding the makeshift barricade as he quickly strode to the end of the hall. Nick cursed, hesitating for a split second before following. Piper moved to where Hancock had been, kneeling down to support Sullivan’s weight as his body slipped sideways against the desk.

“I’ll stay here,” she explained, looking to Madelyn and Deacon as she shrugged off her coat and pressed it to the Sergeant’s wounded side. Piper motioned with her head. “Go!”

“I knew it Guy!” Hancock was shouting as he slammed his fists against the door, seemingly unafraid that the mayor had only just shot blindly out at them minutes before. “I knew you were a crazy son-of-a-bitch!”

He muttered an apology to their mother under his breath but continued pounding against the thick wood. Mayor McDonough could be heard shuffling about inside, a woman’s fearful voice begging him to stop.

“Yes, John! Congratulations! You’ve won!” he yelled back. “I hope you break your foot trying to kick that door down!”

Hancock took a few steps back before rushing the door with his whole body, the force of the impact finally breaking open the lock. The door swung open and while they clearly outnumbered the mayor six to one, Mayor McDonough was the one in control. Geneva knelt on the ground with her hands behind her neck, quietly sobbing as the mayor trained the gun at her head. He was shielding himself behind her body, making it nearly impossible to take a shot without potentially harming her in the process.

“Help me!” she cried.

“Guy, _Guy_ ,” Hancock raised his hands defensively as he took a careful step forward. “We all wanna help you, but not when you’re holding a hostage. Let Ginny go.”

A few tense moments passed as the mayor contemplated his brother’s words. “Oh no. I’m not losing my bargaining chip.”

“Now I’ll tell you what’s going to happen next. I’m walking out of this building, unharmed,” he said, calmly enough despite the fact his expression said otherwise. “With my dignity intact.”

“No way I can let that happen, Guy,” Hancock responded, glancing to Nick and the officers. “You’ve got plenty to answer for.”

“Are you suggesting I be arrested? Put on trial?” the mayor questioned, offended by the very idea. “ _Please_. You know how these people feel about corruption, just look at what happened to Eddie Winter. I won’t be stuck in a prison while they gloat!”

Madelyn exchanged a knowing look with Nick—at least they had somewhat of a confession that the mayor had been involved in the Winter corruption scheme after all. She had some theories on who ensured he was protected from prosecution, but that’s all they were— _theories_.

The mayor continued to ramble, shifting a little away from his hostage. “I’m either walking out of city hall a free man, or…I’m killing as many of you as I can!”

His threat only made the others eager to see him _put down_. Hancock noticed the display of trained weapons and shrugged at his estranged brother. “You really think you’ve got a chance, _brother_?”

“Just let me go,” Mayor McDonough replied, on the verge of begging. Madelyn was already concerned, but she’d been in enough stand-offs to know when a man with a gun was growing unhinged—she was frightened of what might happen next and steadied her aim.

“Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed?” the mayor questioned. “Think about poor Mister Sullivan.”

His negotiating was at an end, and he knew it. Instantly, he snapped, pushing his secretary to the side as he raised his weapon to shoot. “You’ll never take me alive!” 

Hancock advanced before the group, pulling a combat knife from his belt and tackling his brother to the ground. Nick took the opportunity to help Geneva from the ground, passing her off to one of Sullivan’s officers so she could be escorted out of the room and to safety. Meanwhile, Madelyn watched on as the two McDonough brothers wrestled along the ground, moving too quickly for anybody to get in a clear shot. Not a moment after Hancock pinned him to the ground, a shot rang out.

Hancock fell away with a shout, while the mayor slumped back where he was until he was flat against the floor, the pistol falling from his hand. Only then did Madelyn notice the knife plunged into his chest, right where his heart would be. Nobody dared to move in the few seconds that followed, half-afraid that the mayor would spring right back up and shoot them as promised. But then Hancock groaned and writhed from his spot on the ground, prompting Nick and Madelyn to rush over.

“John!” he helped him sit up. “ _Jesus_ , what were you thinking? You’ve been shot!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hancock answered, hissing through his teeth as he gripped his shoulder. “Hasn’t everybody?”

Madelyn took his grisly joke as a good sign that while he was in pain, his injury wasn’t as life threatening as Sergeant Sullivan’s. She glanced over to where Deacon was pushing the gun further away from the mayor’s grasp before kneeling down to inspect his vital signs. He shook his head, and they knew.

Mayor McDonough was dead.

Hancock asked what they all were thinking. “What now?”   
  


* * *

  
**June 1st, 1958**

Madelyn could scarcely remember the last time she’d been alone at the agency. Nick had the tendency to work long hours, and practically lived in his office—even before the untimely death of his fiancé. He was the first one in, and the last one to leave. Except on that morning, it seemed, when Madelyn arrived to find the building empty. She wasn’t too worried about her partner, wondering if he’d slept in or had attended Sunday services—both scenarios seemed unlikely for the detective, who was too busy to clean his socks when working a case.

And now, the Valentine Detective Agency was on the verge of cracking the biggest case they’d ever seen. Piper would’ve called it the case of the century, had that term not already been coined by a _different_ kidnapping. An argument could be made that their case had it all—murder, kidnapping _and_ conspiracy. Add in some espionage, and it read like one of Hitchcock’s scripts. But it wasn’t some wild, made-for-movie fantasy—it was Boston’s reality, and it was the agency’s responsibility to restore order where it had been lost.

Madelyn took advantage of the silence and sat in her office, finding it freeing to be still and alone in her thoughts. As much as she enjoyed the company of her friends, and relied on their relationships to stay motivated, she hadn’t been able to catch her breath over the last few, hectic days. A certain lover’s embrace had helped soothe her anxieties, but her mind was never quiet—not when there were so many unanswered questions and loose ends.

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, chasing her own thoughts when the bell above the front door jingled, signifying _somebody’s_ arrival. She sighed—it was foolish to think the silence could last forever.

“I’m in here,” she called, moving to sit up properly behind her desk.

Nick leaned in the doorway, his coat draped over one arm and hat in hand. He looked exhausted, but happy to see her. “Hey doll.”

“You’re late,” she teased, watching as he stepped into the office and nearly collapsed into the cushioned chair. “Rough night?”

He nodded, lifting up a stack of casefiles before placing them on the nearby table. He gave her a subtle nod and she softly chuckled before rummaging through her desk for the bottle of brandy and two glasses. Sunday morning be damned—they both needed a drink. Madelyn circled the desk to join him in the opposite armchair, handing him one of the filled cups.

Nick studied her hand with a bemused expression. “Where have _you_ been?”

“Around,” she smiled, knowing exactly what he was hinting at. “Can’t go back to the apartment yet, so, I’m staying with a _friend_.”

“Is that right?” Nick questioned, one curious eyebrow raised. He didn’t push the subject further, sipping at his brandy as his eyes drifted away from hers and to the stack of documents. “I went to see John, _and_ Danny Boy—he’s going to be hurting for a while, but he’ll make it.”

“That’s wonderful news.”

“Now for the bad news,” he countered. “Stopped by the coroner’s office and they gave me a report on McDonough alright, but it’s been tampered with to high heaven. No way of knowing for sure if he had some kind of brain augmentation, because _somebody_ , somewhere is still covering this shit up.”

Madelyn shared his frustration, though it was becoming obvious who was responsible. “The Institute,” she replied in a whisper. “It’s not like Hancock was going to root around his brother’s brain right there in city hall. Would you?”

Nick didn’t take offense to her morbid question, but his contemplative silence caused goosebumps to rise along her skin. Just when had they become the type of people who crossed the line to get whatever they needed to solve a case? Then again, this case was anything but ordinary, and required much more than the usual tactics.

“We’re at a dead end here, doll,” Nick said with a frown. He sighed into his glass. “It’s been a long while, but…I’m at a loss.” 

Madelyn hated to hear it, especially when they were so close to an answer. She hesitated before prompting him with a question she hoped wouldn’t upset him further. “What would Jenny want you to do?”

There was more silence, but this time, Nick managed a smile. “Quit smoking, for starters. Change into something nice, stop complaining and get back to work.”

“Eat something too, I think,” Madelyn added, lifting her glass to drink. “Last time I checked, brandy isn’t a suitable breakfast option.”

The two shared a soft laugh and it felt nice—despite the looming tension of the investigation—to sit and enjoy each other’s company. Like the good ol’ days—days that could _never_ be returned. The front door chimed open again, pulling Madelyn from her thoughts. They both turned to find Deacon standing in the doorway, carrying a bouquet of flowers—daises and forget-me-nots.

“Morning,” he greeted, ignoring the suspicious glance Nick gave him and Madelyn. He crossed through the room to place them on her desk before turning to face them, shrugging at the detective. “When’s the last time _you_ got her anything nice?”

Madelyn cleared her throat, silently imploring the two not to dissolve into a spat or argument. Even though she could sense Nick’s burning curiosity, he leaned back and nodded.

“Good morning, _Mister Deacon_ ,” he said, the taunting formality bringing a smile to the spy’s face. “What brings you to the agency on this fine Sunday?”

Deacon pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to Madelyn. “Railroad intel. Don’t ask, but we’ve managed to get our hands on MIT’s blueprints. The college is more than meets the eye.”

Madelyn read over the transcript, reminding herself about the inside agent that Deacon had told her about a few weeks prior. She’d had her doubts—still did, if she was being honest—but for now, it looked like the mole had pulled through.

“Don’t tell me,” she muttered in response. “A secret tunnel.”

“Bingo! Everybody’s who anybody has got one!” Deacon laughed, waving his hand dismissively when Nick grumbled. “The Institute has got a whole network of them that lead to some kind of bunker.”

“What for?” Nick finally asked, curious as Madelyn handed him the report.

Deacon shook his head. “That is anybody’s guess. Kellogg? An army of androids? A _bomb_?”

Whatever trace of amusement Madelyn had drained from her face at the very thought. Nick placed the Railroad intel atop the rest of the casefiles and shot back the rest of his brandy with a hiss. It was time to gather their resources and go after the Institute once and for all.

They just had to find a way inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In Sheep’s Clothing” is the in-game quest where you confront Mayor McDonough about his synth identity. It’s mirrored here, but perhaps the biggest change is giving Piper’s lines to Hancock. People have always found it strange that he doesn’t have any reaction in-game to this discovery, and a minimal one after his brother’s death. Since Piper has such a huge role elsewhere, I thought it was important to give Hancock that closure here. 
> 
> Now for some history: Julius and Ether Rosenberg were convicted of espionage in 1951 and (so far) are the only United States citizens to have ever been executed for spying. Let’s all learn about the Cold War and McCarthy-ism! Yay! 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	18. Lose More Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wide network of Valentine Detective Agency’s allies meet to perfect the plan to infiltrate MIT. On the eve of ‘battle’, Madelyn is apprehensive about one last confession from Deacon. With no time to waste, the fight is taken to Cambridge where the Institute can be exposed once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Day-O—_ Harry Belafonte

_“That’s not the way to win.”—_ Jeff, as played by Robert Mitchum

_“Is there a way to win?”—_ Kathie, as played by Jane Greer

_“There’s a way to lose more slowly.” (Out of the Past,_ 1947 _)_

* * *

**June 16th, 1958**

It took just over two weeks to solidify the plan to infiltrate the Institute. It hardly mattered that Madelyn and Nick—with Deacon and the Railroad’s help—had previously breached Fort Hagen. This operation was an entirely different beast, that required an entirely different set of skills and resources. There would be no undercover sneaking, or witty aliases this time—just a dangerous game of cat and mouse—a game they all hoped to survive.

After weeks of organizing, Nick decided there was no point in waiting any longer and called a meeting at the agency to be held the evening before their planned attack. The usual group had increased exponentially, with the allies they had gained in the last several months joining them, each with their own part to play. It was remarkable to see everyone in one place, spread out in the lobby (because there was no logistical way to fit so many people in Nick’s tiny office), and it made Madelyn think that maybe— _just maybe—_ they had a shot at finding out the truth behind the Institute’s schemes.

She sat, perched on the edge of Ellie’s receptionist desk so that she could have a clear view of the room, scribbling down the summarized events of what was to occur the following morning. The plan was carefully detailed and outlined in a series of reports and dictated memos, but there was no harm in writing it out one last time. The secretary was working overtime—literally—bouncing from one cluster of people to the next, offering refills of strong coffee or spirits. But nearly everyone was focused on Nick and his giant, wheeled chalkboard of information, and the way it outlined the case’s timeline, all the way back to 1947. The detective was in rare form—sharp, focused, and with a fiery determination Madelyn hadn’t seen in months, or maybe years. Coat discarded and sleeves rolled up, he talked through the details, and didn’t stop for a drink or cigarette.

“…which brings us to the incident at city hall,” Nick gestured to the _Publick Occurrences_ newspaper clipping before stepping away to finally grab a quick sip of his whiskey that sat next to Madelyn. “Did you ever find out why the Boston P.D. were a no-show?”

Sergeant Danny Sullivan, fresh out from the hospital after recovering from his injuries sustained at said _incident_ , sat in a nearby chair. He nodded, looking displeased with the information he was about to share. “It was all Mayor McDonough’s fault, buying off officers. Which means, by proxy, they were paid off by MIT, if we’re still in agreement about who was— _is—_ pulling the strings.”

“Not for very much longer,” Nick replied.

“I’ve had to spend the last two weeks cooped up at New England sending a courier back and forth to the courthouse to perform background checks on my entire squad to make sure none of them have connections to the university,” Sullivan described, shaking his head with a deep scowl.

“Cheer up, Danny Boy,” Hancock quipped, leaned back in the chair at the Sergeant’s side. “At least there’s some good news.”

“Please John,” Nick groused, maybe wishing the younger McDonough brother was still recuperating from his own gunshot wound. “Enlighten us.”

“Made a house call with Bobby to the deputy district attorney last night,” Hancock explained, motioning over to where the former mercenary was fixing his own cup of coffee at the kitchenette. “Did you know that his kid and little Duncan go to preschool together?”

Nick wasn’t amused, and his patience was wearing thin. Though, it always did with the would-be politician. “How cute.”

“Right? And there I was, thinking I’d have to resort to _blackmail_ ,” the other man replied.

MacCready laughed as he leaned against the galley, taking a sip from his cup before wincing at whatever he’d poured into the porcelain. “You still blackmailed him.”

“Mild blackmail,” Hancock contended with a shrug, ignoring the way Nick and Madelyn shot him double looks of disappointment and concern. “Agree to disagree. The _good news_ is we sweet talked that stiff into signing a genuine warrant. With somethin’ like that, we’re made in the shade.”

He handed the folded document from his jacket pocket to Sergeant Sullivan, who took his time in reading it over. Nick was still skeptical, leaning against the desk near Madelyn while he slowly nursed his drink.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the detective urged. “Does it look legitimate?”

“As far as I can tell,” Sullivan affirmed, passing the warrant to Nick to read.

Madelyn glanced over his shoulder, glossing over the familiar legal jargon before focusing on the signature at the bottom—it surely looked like the deputy district attorney’s scrawl. She didn’t think either Hancock or MacCready would jeopardize the case with a little bit of forgery. Not that blackmail was any better, but she could sooth it over with the man who was _technically_ her boss later.

“Well, at least now we have a valid reason to get into the building,” Nick spoke, handing the document back to the Sergeant for safekeeping. “Wouldn’t hurt to have backup on standby, just in case.”

The focus shifted to Preston Garvey who was smiling his thanks as Ellie poured him a new cup of coffee. Standing next to him was Lieutenant Danse—ever the reluctant participant—who had refused a seat and a drink. The only reason why he agreed to assist was for ‘the greater good’. The Institute and their experiments had no place in the United States military, and he was determined to see them exposed for what they truly were.

“The Minutemen are already in position throughout Cambridge,” Preston explained. “Just give me the word, and they can be ready in a minute’s notice.”

The Lieutenant sneered. “We’ll root out those Institute bastards, one way or another.”

“That’s the spirit,” Piper remarked from her spot near the front door. “I’ve done my own reconnaissance around Cambridge and the campus with _Mister Neurotic_ here.”

Tinker Tom sat in a nearby seat, spinning his body in increasingly faster circles until the reporter reached out to stop him. He gazed up at her with wide eyes. “Is that _me_?”

Piper looked as though she could snap his neck but relaxed with a deep sigh. “Based on his readouts, and those _blueprints_ , we were able to find an unmarked sewer entrance near the eastern banks of the Charles River.”

“Why does it always have to be a sewer?” Madelyn mumbled under her breath, causing Nick to smirk.

“Good work, Piper,” he remarked, the closest he’d gotten to _happy_ all evening. “This means we can go ahead with splitting up into smaller teams.”

“Better if you and Blue take the sneaky route while the rest of us cover your tails,” she gestured to the circle of people, her eyes lingering on the figure leaning against the far corner of the room. “That is, if we can trust these blueprints in the first place, and we aren’t about to send you into a trap.”

Madelyn frowned at Piper, wishing that after all this time her friend could be less cynical about the Railroad and their resources. Sure, their actions were still largely shrouded in mystery, but that didn’t equate to nefariousness. It was important to remember who the _real_ enemy was. She let her eyes drift to where Deacon was standing near the doorway to her office—where he’d been standing all night, just silently listening and watching from behind his darkened shades. A slight shiver ran up her spine and intuition told her his attention was focused on her rather than the other occupants of the room.

“You can trust me,” he finally said, the weight of his words lost on everyone except her. Piper shrugged but didn’t make to argue any further. Madelyn smiled to herself as she broke her gaze away from his face, looking down at the writing on her notepad instead.

Nick stood, bringing the attention back to the timeline. “Let’s not get blind-sighted by the Institute.”

“We have a man to find. _Kellogg_ ,” he reminded the group, tapping the chalkboard where the scarred man’s picture hung. “More than that, we have a child to bring home to his parents. Shaun Perlman. I’d like to solve this, once and for all.”

Silent understanding fell over the room, but it didn’t last.

“A toast,” Hancock suddenly declared, raising his glass. “To the best damn detective this city’s ever seen,” he nodded towards Madelyn, grinning like he’d gone mad—maybe he had. “And behind every great man, is an even greater woman. To Valentine and Hardy!”

As it grew closer to midnight, the plans for the following day were solidified and the agency gradually emptied out. The participants would need a good night’s rest—if it were even possible—before they infiltrated the Institute in the morning. Nick and Madelyn saw their guests out, though the detective left her to walk with Deacon outside so they might have some privacy. Even then, she noted Drummer Boy waiting by a parked car with Tinker Tom inside, the two doing everything they could to pretend they weren’t watching the two.

“We’re heading back to the church for a rendezvous,” he explained, positioning himself so the others couldn’t necessarily see their exchange. “ _Somebody_ has to fill Desdemona and Glory in on all the nitty-gritty.”

“Is it safe for you all to travel in the same car?” she asked, peering over his shoulder. Call it paranoia, but she’d had enough close calls in the last six months to last a lifetime. 

Deacon softly chuckled, reaching out to gently wrap his fingers through the curls along the side of her face. “You’ve been spending too much time reading those detective novels, Charmer.”

“Or living in one.” 

He looked at her, and there was the unspoken question— _will I see you tonight?_ She frowned a little and sensed his disappointment, even behind his shades. She grasped the hand at his side and brushed her thumbs across his knuckles in affectionate sweeps.

“I’m staying with Nick tonight,” Madelyn said, trying not to sound too sad about it. She mimicked his speech pattern. “ _Somebody_ has to make sure he actually sleeps tonight.”

Deacon offered a barely-there smile, which sent her thoughts into a tailspin. He moved his hand so he was softly cupping her cheek, the pad of his thumb ghosting down towards her lips. “What if I said that I had a secret to tell you?”

“What kind of secret?” Madelyn asked in response, her heartrate suddenly increasing at the possibilities. Slowly, the world around her started to fade away, and the only thing keeping her grounded was his touch.

“An _important_ secret,” he answered, breath hot against her mouth.

It was very likely that he was playing some kind of game, all part of an elaborate ruse to get her to come home with him. What could possibly be more important than what she’d already learned about him—his appearance, his home, his _name_. Unless it was all a _lie_. Madelyn doubted that, even as a momentary pang shot through her heart. Deacon must’ve noticed the subtle change in her expression because he pulled away just enough, and quickly pushed up his glasses so that she could see his eyes. Their stormy grey-blue color were vibrant with emotion, so striking and intense that she felt overwhelmed. _Secret_ immediately translated in her mind to _confession_.

Deacon drew her closer again, hand cradling the side of her face. “Madelyn, I—”

Her heart nearly stopped at the sound of her name—her _real_ name—and she had to fight to stay standing as her knees wobbled. Then, she kissed him, if only to stop him from saying anything. Call it fear, call her a coward—she just couldn’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence, even if she was dying to scream it from the rooftops herself. He was surprised for a half-second before returning the kiss, angling them even more out of eyeshot from the loitering Railroad agents. Couldn’t see the boss-man (because face it, she knew the truth about _that_ too) sharing a tender moment with his lady.

Madelyn pulled away just a fraction before they could get carried away in such a public setting and gripped his hand tight. “Cliché confessions spoken in the calm before the storm are a bad omen, don’t you think?”

Deacon blinked, temporarily stunned, but recovered well enough to flash a sideways smirk, one she couldn’t tell was forced or not. The last thing she wanted was to cause a rift between them when they needed each other’s support the most.

“You’re right,” he sighed wistfully, bordering on playing his emotions too thick. He readjusted his shades so they were where they belonged—at least for him. “Wouldn’t want to jinx it.”

The car horn behind them blared into the night and he turned, hand still clasped in hers to see Drummer Boy leaning into the driver’s car window with his arm poised to repeat the action. Tinker Tom was snickering, daring him to do it again. Despite her unease, Madelyn smiled. “Shouldn’t keep the boys waiting.”

He shook his head and brought her hand up so he could press a soft kiss to her knuckles. “Je t’adore.”

Madelyn knew that wasn’t what he really wanted to say, but it would have to do, for now. She kept her eyes on him the entire time as he walked away, shooing Drummer Boy away from the driver’s side door of their vehicle before getting in. Deacon regarded her for one last lingering moment as he started the car before slowly driving away. Within moments, Nick rejoined her on the sidewalk, following her line of sight down the stretch of road.

“Ready to go?”

She turned to face him as a wash of remorse came over her heart. Had she done the right thing? Madelyn studied her partner’s face and his bemused expression, eyebrow raised as he looked back at her with mild concern.

“Nick, have I ever told you that I love you?” she asked, just to see if she could say the words. Easy enough—now why couldn’t she say them to Deacon? Or have them spoken to _her_?

“Sure you’re saying that to the right fella?” Nick’s laughter died as soon as he noticed her melancholy state and drew closer to her, wrapping her up in a loose hug. He held her long enough, uncaring that they had somewhere to be. When he pulled away, he tilted her chin up with a few fingers and offered a fleeting smile. “Love you too, doll.”   
  


* * *

**  
June 17th, 1958**

“Have I ever mentioned how much I _love_ wet socks?”

Deacon’s hushed voice echoed through the underground tunnel, barely audible over the rushing sound of water that flowed around them and beneath their feet. He was walking a few paces behind Madelyn while Nick advanced ahead, trying his best to ignore the spy’s outburst as he focused on following the makeshift map in his hand.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, narrowing her eyes at the shine from the flashlight he carried. “Once or twice, yes.”

“Wish I had the same idea as you, Charmer,” he sneered, flicking the light across her outfit. She had the foresight to wear the shoes that had already been damaged the _last_ time she went walking through a sewer, and one of her older dresses that despite Codsworth’s cleanings, was still stained with questionable material. “Or is that some kind of _bad omen_?”

She instantly whipped back around so he wouldn’t see her disappointed frown, though judging by his silence, he knew he’d crossed a line by using those words. Madelyn knew she’d come to regret not letting him say what he wanted to— _needed_ to—but did he have to be so cruel? At first, she was grateful for him to be at her side in this so-called final fight, relying on him for that extra bit of emotional strength and comfort he could provide so well. But now, she almost wished he had stayed topside with Piper and the others or gone with Sergeant Sullivan through the main entrance. His presence was only causing her emotional turmoil, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted. 

This time, Nick was the one to turn back to look at her, his scowl indicating that he’d heard their conversation. Madelyn knew he likely had a litany of strongly worded _advice_ for the other man, but she shook her head, silencing him before he could even start. This was neither the time or place—not when they were quite literally in the belly of the beast.

“Should be a latch up ahead,” he said instead, turning back to lead the two down the dark passageway. It took a few more yards before they reached a ladder that led to a metal door, and if the map layouts were accurate as they had been so far, it would take them to a larger, less water-logged room. “Into the unknown.”

Nick didn’t wait for anyone to volunteer before climbing the metal rungs first, pausing at the latch to fiddle with the lock. “Watch your heads!”

Madelyn and Deacon sidestepped the padlock as it crashed into the shallow water at their feet, craning their heads upwards to watch as the detective disappeared through the newly opened hole. She anxiously looked to her Railroad partner, motioning for him to climb first, and he hesitated, passing her the flashlight before finally moving. There was some disappointment as she watched him ascend, secretly hoping there would be some teasing remark about insisting she go first so that he might sneak a peak up her skirt. Instead, the persistent silence between them started to break her heart. Madelyn thought about blurting out how she felt, but it hardly felt romantic. Rather, it felt _stupid_. Maybe she’d missed her chance. After how many missed opportunities over the last several weeks to tell him, _now_ was when she desperately wanted to say those three little words.

_I love you_.

Okay, not so little. Talk about timing.

Nick’s face peered over the ledge and only then did she realize she’d been standing frozen, stuck in her thoughts. “What did I say about standing pretty?”

She forced a laugh and climbed up to meet them, allowing Deacon to hoist her up the rest of the way despite the fact his touch was like fire against her skin. His hand squeezed against her arm, thumb brushing along the soft underside of her wrist as he stared at her. It was delicate, as if she’d shatter if he pressed too hard. Madelyn lingered until she was sure he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse and slowly pulled away.

Nick pretended to have not seen the exchange, focused on the set of locked doors that led to various parts of the underground system. At the back of the storage room was a freight elevator—where it led was anybody’s guess. The detective consulted the folded-up blueprints again, twisting them around in his hands and tapping the sheet to signify where they were.

“If we take... _this_ door,” he pointed west. “We’ll head further down into some kind of storage complex, and…”

“And what?” Madelyn asked, stepping further away from Deacon so she could peer at the carefully drawn diagrams on the paper.

Nick shrugged, clearly puzzled. “Not sure. Just looks like one big empty room according to this.”

She looked back to Deacon to see if he had anything to add, but he remained silent, doing nothing to help her nerves. She sighed. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there.”

The hallway beyond the western door smelt sterile, reminiscent of a hospital, the lingering scent of alcohol threatening to burn her nostrils if she breathed in too deep. As they descended a narrow staircase, the stench intensified as their surroundings shifted from the drab to the pristine. For being underground, it felt like walking into a museum. It felt otherworldly, untouched by time.

“Damn,” Deacon finally spoke— _breathed_ —as they stepped out onto the landing, which overlooked a seemingly never-ending room of storage containers, computers and other technology.

There were metal platforms connected to more observation stations, with staircases that led further into the depths of the underground bunker. The possibilities of what they might find were endless. Near the back, shadowed in darkness, was the faint glow of a reactor core—no wonder the Institute had been become so powerful, so quickly, all while boasting the use of clean energy.

“Is that going to be a problem?” Madelyn asked, perturbed by the slight humming that echoed through the large room.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” Deacon asked, and she glanced at him, unsure if he was joking or not. He frowned. “Won’t be able to tell until we take a closer look.”

“Of course,” Nick grumbled. “Let’s split up, see what we can find in those rooms on the way over.”

Madelyn’s only comfort was that they could easily see each other as they walked along the platforms, but was still apprehensive, especially when both men removed their holstered weapons. It was more alarming to see Deacon armed, the pistol an unusual sight. Even in their most dangerous of operations, he’d relied on wits rather than steel. She had her own revolver, and quickly pulled it from underneath her skirts with a small flourish. With a silent nod, they each took a different path.

Madelyn reached a small alcove before the others, the tiny windowed room filled with filing cabinets and scattered paperwork across two desks. There was a stack of files that she idly flipped through, the words on the page confirming that the Institute had been performing or had been _attempting_ to perform brain augmentations for years. As far as she could discern, the files contained information on potential targets—if the college had been successful in capturing them, or if _something else_ had occurred. Many had been ultimately passed over for frivolous reasons, and the reports read like rejected job applicants rather than candidates for brainwashing. Her absentminded browsing stopped dead-cold when she came across an all too familiar name.

Madelyn nearly fainted at the picture pinned to the inside of the file. “ _Nate_?”

“Now, isn’t this precious?”

She knew that voice without needing to turn around. It had been nearly two years, but she was instantly transported to Christmas Eve, 1946 and that dark, snowy, Boston Common alley where her husband was murdered. That same electric chill ran through her body—head to toe—rooting her to the spot. No amount of fear she’d experienced in the last six months could compare to the sensation crawling across her skin, threatening to close off her windpipe without so much as a gasp.

His footsteps slowly echoed against the metal flooring, drawing closer until she could feel his body heat radiating, circling around her form until he was in perfect view. 

“Kellogg,” she forced herself to say, gripping the gun at her side.

He grinned in that hauntingly familiar, devilish way, not surprised that she knew his name. “In the flesh.”

There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask—about Nate’s murder, about Shaun Perlman’s kidnapping, about all the other unsolved cases he was supposedly linked to. Was he really an Institute experiment gone wrong, or some kind of pawn? His very presence seemed to answer that last one loud and clear. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was reprimanding herself for not _shooting_ first, and asking questions later. She’d made that mistake before and it nearly cost Nick his life—and had ended Jenny’s. That couldn’t happen now. Just as her hand twitched and she made to raise her revolver, he advanced towards her, pinning her against the glass window. The sound was loud enough to alert her partners where they stood yards away on sperate platforms.

“Charmer!”

“Madelyn!”

“How cute,” Kellogg taunted, the phrase familiar and gut wrenching all the same. “Who should I kill this time?”

He roughly pushed her aside so that she collapsed against one of the desks. As he left, he tossed a device over his shoulder that immediately filled the room with smoke, grey plumes billowing out into the main area. Madelyn clamped her eyes shut as she spluttered and coughed, struggling to pull herself to stand after smacking her head against the edge of the desk. She blindly reached for her gun and resigned herself to crawl to the doorway before using the railings to drag her body upright. To the left, she could see the faint outline of Nick’s trench coat but to the right, she could see two bodies—Kellogg and Deacon—scuffling along the walkway.

Without a second thought she forced herself to go—to _run_ —back the way she came and to where they were. The smoke made it difficult to see clearly, but Deacon’s gun was gone—they were now fighting for Kellogg’s, swapping positions when one would gain the upper hand to pin the other to the guard railing. In the time it took Madelyn to rush over, Deacon found enough leverage to push the other man over the ledge, but Kellogg wouldn’t give up so easily. He held onto the railing with one hand and swung his other arm up to shoot. It all seemed to happen in slow motion, giving Madelyn little time to act.

“Deacon!” she shouted for him to move out of the way, raising her pistol so her sights were aimed directly on Kellogg’s scar. When he didn’t move, her mind went blank save for one thing. “ _Johnathan!_ ”

He immediately turned to her, the momentary shock fading away as he finally dove for cover. Kellogg could only laugh, and even Madelyn wondered why he hadn’t taken the opportunity to shoot Deacon—or them both—dead. His grip on the railing tightened as he attempted to pull himself up, to no avail.

“You aren’t going to shoot me,” he spat. “You won’t kill me.”

Eddie Winter had said the same thing, before running away. From where she stood, there wasn’t anywhere for Kellogg to run. Madelyn didn’t feel like hesitating anymore, not after what he’d taken from her. The smug smile slowly returned to his face as he trained the same gun he’d used all those years ago at her—but she was faster—pulling the trigger just once.

_Bullseye_.

The sound was deafening and shook her to the core. She watched, shaking as Kellogg’s death-grip slowly loosened until he finally slipped from the ledge and down to the chasm below, the _thump_ of his body against the floor a chilling indication that part of their mission was over. Tears instantly clouded her vision, and she sucked in as much air as she could, blindly reaching out for the nearest railing with her free hand as her knees gave out. Deacon was at her side in an instant, scrambling to collect her in his arms as he took the gun from her trembling hand before wrapping her in a tight embrace.

“Shh,” he hushed, pressing soft but urgent kisses against her temple as he combed his fingers through her hair. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Madelyn wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, Deacon whispering incoherent, comforting words into the shell of her, but it was what she desperately needed as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. They both whipped around at the sudden sound of rushing footsteps against the walkway, breathing a sigh of relief when they saw it was only Nick, looking just as disheveled as they did.

“Whoa, whoa,” he raised his hands in defense, carefully observing the scene before him. “It’s just me. Had to take care of two crazed androids. Makes sense now that I see who they showed up with.”

“Yeah,” Madelyn answered, still clutching Deacon’s arm in the fear she might topple over out of shock. Nick didn’t bother asking her if she was—or would be—alright as he silently peered over the ledge with a grim expression. He’d been in her shoes—revenge wasn’t as sweet as people claimed it to be. She pinched the bridge of her nose and found her voice.

“They—they were looking for candidates,” she began, pointing back to the room where she’d found the files before she’d been rudely interrupted. “For brain augmentation, for—” she broke off, unable to stand the thought. “Nick, they had a file on Nate.”

His eyebrows jumped up in surprise before furrowing in anger, but to her surprise, his fury was calmer than hers. He gestured to a databank further back. “Come on, let’s find out what these bastards are hiding.”

The computer was surrounded by towering processors—technology that Madelyn had never seen, even when she’d been to the Switchboard. Nick didn’t seem daunted, at least by the screen and output, immediately leaning over to type commands like it was his job. Deacon only slipped away when she assured him she would be okay, and she watched as he carefully approached the reactor they’d seen before.

“We weren’t wrong,” Nick muttered, sounding not entirely confident. Madelyn studied his profile, attempting to decipher the information flashing before her eyes on the tiny screen. “But we were wrong about a lot of things, too.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Nick pressed his fingers against a few more keys. “It’s not just brain surgery, or brainwashing we’re looking at, here.”

“Those _candidates_ you were looking at?” he tapped his prosthetic fingers against his screen, creating an eerie kind of sound. “If they didn’t work out for procedure _one_ , they were used for procedure _two_.”

“Being?”

“DNA harvesting,” Nick said bleakly. “To be used in the production of new androids. To make them...as close to human as possible.”

Madelyn was already connecting the dots in her mind, her chest tightening in dread. “Nate?”

Nick didn’t say anything at first, nervous as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Close. _You_.”

“Hair sample, 1956,” he continued, explaining before she had a chance to react. Still, she nearly collapsed in disbelief. He looked at her face-on, his sympathetic expression not doing much to quell her fears. “How’d—”

“He—that _bastard_ ,” she answered, refusing to use Kellogg’s name. “He tore some from my scalp.”

_I prefer brunettes_ —his voice still echoed in her mind, causing a chill to run through her.

“Always thought it was as a trophy. Never thought it would be for some sick experiment.”

Her partner studied the screen, clicking through more pages. “I don’t think they were successful with sequencing anything, if that gives you any piece of mind.”

“Hardly,” she mumbled, wondering if there was still the slim possibility that _somewhere_ in the facility—or even out on the streets of Boston—there was a rogue synth with her DNA. It was petrifying to even consider.

“ _God damn_ ,” Nick suddenly cursed, his hands shaking. “They have Shaun Pearlman’s DNA!”

Madelyn wasn’t surprised by that. “That makes sense, doesn’t it? He was essentially kidnapped by the Institute.”

The detective shook his head, and dared to smile, even if it quickly disappeared from his face. “It says here he’s _alive_. Just as it says _you_ are.”

Now she was as alarmed as he was. “What else does it say?”

“It has a location and—” he frantically patted at his coat pockets for a notepad and pen, passing off to Madelyn so she could scribble down the information. “He’s been right under our noses this entire time!”

“ _So_ ,” Deacon’s voice interrupted their shared excitement. “Remember when you asked if we’d have a problem?”

Madelyn looked over to where the Railroad spy was bent over, inspecting an exposed panel of wiring in front of the reactor. Her enthusiasm started to fade. “Vaguely.”

“Do you also remember _somebody_ mentioning that the Institute might be hiding a _bomb_?”

“I distinctly remember that somebody being you, Deacon,” she answered, struggling to swallow down her growing anxiety.

He nervously chuckled. “Just had to go and jinx us, didn’t I?”

“Why the hell does the Institute have a bomb?” Nick asked, more angry than anything. He pointed an accusatory finger at Deacon. “I know about you and your Railroad mole. Whose to say they didn’t plant it there just to screw with us?”

Deacon didn’t seem surprised that Madelyn had let that information slip to the detective and didn’t seem upset by the accusations either. That, or he was a little preoccupied with _not blowing up_. “What, ol’ Doc Rendezvous? _Never_.”

“More plausible that Scarface down there,” he pointed to where Kellogg had met his demise. “Had this as a backup plan. Last minute gambit to get his way. Nasty, but effective. Take down everybody in…I’d say a half-mile radius with him.”

Madelyn finally asked the obvious. “How long do we have?”

Deacon wasn’t the one to answer.

“I’d say approximately twenty minutes.”

The man had appeared on the platform behind them as if he had materialized from thin air. Madelyn recognized him instantly as the Institute’s Director—the same nameless, silver haired man who had appeared at the university’s demonstration in early May. The man who had calmed Mayor McDonough and the crowd with five easy words— _everything will be alright_. He didn’t make an appearance unless it was absolutely necessary.

“What are you doing here?” she questioned.

“I’ve come to stop you, of course,” he answered, folding his hands together. “I am aware of your investigation, and that you know who I am—who _we_ are.”

Instead of getting angry, like she knew she was capable of becoming, and how she knew Nick wanted to react, Madelyn tried a little civility. She wanted desperately to understand. “Why are you doing this?”

The Director appeared pleased for the time being and stepped closer. “To advance the Commonwealth into a new age, of course. Here at the Institute, we aren’t simply trying to better life, we are trying to _create it_.”

“Nobody should be able to play _God_ ,” Nick argued.

“No, no,” he shook his head in disagreement. “Think of me instead as…a _father_.”

Madelyn didn’t know which was worse. Her skin crawled and in such a short timespan she decided that this man didn’t deserve her respect. “One of your experiments killed my husband. Kidnapped an innocent baby boy. Murdered countless others. How can you explain that?”

“It is unfortunate that Mister Kellogg turned out the way he did,” the Director said, showing little signs of remorse. “As with the others like him. Rest assured, we have rectified that issue.”

“Oh no,” Nick waved his hands, disgusted by the very thought. “You aren’t going to be sending any synths to infiltrate Boston, or anywhere else. The jig is up, and we’re here to expose your little party for all it’s worth.”

The other man was not phased. “Is that so?”

“The Institute’s days of experimenting is over,” Madelyn clarified. “And you can kiss your military contracts goodbye too. While you’re down here, buttering us up with false bravado, the campus is crawling with _our_ good men, Boston P.D. that haven’t been swayed by your dirty money.”

“Between the evidence collected here and what we have stored away at the agency? Once it’s all been handed over to the Feds, I wouldn’t be surprised if they cooked you alive on the grounds for treason,” she elaborated.

A heavy pause filled the space between them.

“Not if that bomb destroys us all,” the Director countered in a calm voice. It seemed it would take a lot more to crack his thick veneer. “There’d be no evidence left. Just dust and rumors.”

Deacon was suddenly skeptical. “Now that you mention it Nick, do you mind if I ask you who rigged this thing, oh mighty _father_?”

The Director shifted uncomfortably before answering. “A freshman student by the name of—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Deacon stopped him with a wave of his hand. “That won’t be necessary. Did they happen to use _special_ blueprints? Maybe got some advice from an _old friend_ at the ‘mechanic’s shop’?”

Madelyn snapped her hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh at his exaggerated use of air quotes. Still, the Director seemed baffled, and ultimately nodded. “I—he, yes. Yes, he did.”

“Ha!” Deacon clapped his hands together and kicked his foot against the exposed wiring, which caused everyone else to flinch backward in distress. “This thing is a dud! It might destroy the bunker, sure, but all of Cambridge? You’re out of your damn mind.”

Nick was amused, and this time the grin stuck to his face. “Maybe it’s _you_ who needs the brain augmentation.”

The Director floundered, unexpecting to be outwitted in his own home, in his own _Institute._ He looked about ready to rant and rave until he was red in the face, pausing only when there was a commotion at the front of the large corridor. The calvary had arrived—just in time.

“Valentine! Hardy!” Sergeant Sullivan rushed across the metal walkway, a few of his officers and Preston Garvey following closely behind. He slowed upon approach, nervously eyeing the stand-off before him with his weapon half-raised. “The situation upstairs is contained. The department heads started singing like canaries the moment we floated treason as a possible charge.”

“ _What_?” The Director huffed, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”

“What did she tell ya’?” Nick sneered at the man, tilting his head at Madelyn.

A piecing sound rang through the large room that continued on every beat of a second, the confusion falling away from everyone’s faces as they all looked to the bomb and its timer. Deacon took three measured steps away from the platform before scurrying away, practically wrapping his arms around Madelyn in and effort to get her to move with him as quickly as they could to safety.

“Is that—”

“Yes,” Nick answered, interrupting Preston’s question. “A bomb. And we’ve got less than five minutes to get back to the surface. So let’s cut the chatter and get moving!”

The Sergeant made to grab the Director so that he could handcuff the man first, even if it would make escorting him topside a difficult task.

“You’ll never take me alive!” he shouted, rushing away from the group and towards the bomb as it continued beeping.

Sullivan shook his head, withdrawing immediately with his arms raised in defeat. “Suit yourself.”

Madelyn almost suggested that Deacon toss her over his shoulder the way he sprinted along the walkway with her at his side, causing her to almost trip on the stairs. She took one last glance at the underground bunker and the lone Director before they made their ascent up the narrow staircase. With less than five minutes to navigate the tunnels back to the surface, there wasn’t time to talk, or hesitate, so she focused on nothing but the next step forward, barely remembering to breathe until her lungs screamed for air.

It wasn’t until somebody— _Lieutenant Danse—_ was helping her from the manhole that she realized she’d blocked out their escape, stumbling off in a daze and pressing a hand to her head—did she have a concussion? Was she going into shock?

“We’re evacuating the building,” a deep voice, maybe it belonged to the soldier, or one of Sullivan’s men, she couldn’t tell. “Get her out of here!”

Familiar arms encircled her. “Madelyn? Charmer?”

She blinked, focusing on Deacon’s worried expression, even though she couldn’t see most of his face. “You said…my name.”

He smiled. “Well that’s what it is, isn’t it?”

She smiled too.

“Come on,” grabbed her hand, leading her into a light jog towards a small gathering of people on the banks of the Charles River. Piper and some of Preston’s Minutemen were standing with evacuees from the campus, looking on as more people rushed out to look on.

While their backs were still turned to the building, there was a rumbling, not unlike an earthquake, followed by what Madelyn knew to be a series of explosions, people tumbling to the ground as the world around them shook. Despite the bomb setting off underground, the destruction was still felt and seen above ground. When the dust settled, a deep crevice appeared in the center of the campus courtyard, a few stone columns were toppled over, and a fire had broken out in the inside rotunda. So much for a _dud_.

Deacon wrapped his arm around Madelyn’s shoulder, tucking her close as smoke billowed to the sky, the haunting sign that the Institute’s hold on Boston was no more.

It was all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge disclaimer on the specifics of nuclear energy and that an actual reactor core would not be visible to the naked eye. But science takes the fun away and considering in-game you walk right up to the damn reactor with minimal rad-damage (and this is the 50s we’re talking about, where people were eating radium), I’m going to invoke author’s hand wave. 👋
> 
> Next week, we tie up the rest of the loose ends in the last chapter/Epilogue! I am a wreck of emotions! My Donald Glover™ emotions! 
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	19. We Could Go Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madelyn finally earns her happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🎵 _Whatever Will Be, Will Be—_ Doris Day

_“With my brains and your looks, we could go places.” -_ Frank Chambers as played by John Garfield _(The Postman Always Rings Twice,_ 1946 _)._

* * *

**  
June 22nd, 1958**

“You’re late.”

Madelyn laughed at the sound of Nick’s voice, calling out to her the moment she arrived at the agency that morning, the bell above the front door indicating her presence. Her amusement persisted as she walked through the lobby, observing the care packages that filled the space. Even Ellie’s desk was covered with boxes and flower bouquets—more than what had been present the previous evening, or the day before that. There were more gifts scattered throughout the room, all sent in congratulations after news of Valentine Detective Agency’s success spread across Boston. Taking down Eddie Winter was _one thing_ but solving a decade-old missing persons case and exposing a government conspiracy was another. Nobody expected the ragtag detective and his lawyer broad to take expose the Institute—not that anybody knew the university were hiding such abhorrent secrets in the first place.

She leaned against the doorway of Nick’s office, surprised by the lack of clutter that typically covered his desk. The stacks of case files and reports had been boxed away, leaving the room the cleanest she’d seen in years. Well, except for the small sprinkling of cigarette ash on the oak wood that he’d failed to hide—hell would freeze over before Nick Valentine gave up _that_ habit. All that remained on his desk, aside from the usual decorations, was a single newspaper and a bottle of Irish whiskey, two perfectly poured glasses on standby. A Sunday tradition.

Madelyn grinned. “I think I’m right on time.”

“I wonder if Grace Kelly received this many flowers when she won _best actress_ ,” she joked, walking over to take her usual seat in the armchair to the left.

Nick chuckled, rounding the desk to join her with the two glasses in hand, the bottle and newspaper tucked under his arm. “I’ll let you know when I start feeling like a Princess.”

“You should see Piper’s office,” he added, passing her one whiskey-filled glass and the weekend edition of _Publick Occurrences_ before sitting down. “Gal’s been flooded with offers from all over the state, including the _Bugle_ , to run their editorial departments.”

“She’ll never take them,” Madelyn contended. “She has enough resources and connections to finally fund a full staff. Maybe finally move into a bigger office and give _us_ the space back so we can do the same.”

Even though Nick smiled at the idea, he reeled in his excitement. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Madelyn feigned innocence, shrugging as she hid her grin behind a generous gulp of whiskey.

He glanced at her curiously, smiling against the rim of his cup as he also took a drink. He expertly diverted the conversation. “So, where were you this morning?”

She considered lying just for the fun of it, but decided the truth was just as shocking. “Church.”

“Madelyn Hardy, once again attending Sunday mass,” Nick replied, shaking his head in humorous disbelief. “I thought I’d never see the day.”

Neither did she. Madelyn was sure she had lost her faith the day her husband died, buried it along with Nate to be forgotten. His death, and her survival was more than guilt—it was sin. And then, one New Year’s Eve party later, everything changed. She’d been tested over the last several months, and despite the grief and the loss, she was also at peace. _Nate_ was at peace. Somewhere along the way, she’d found salvation.

“You could say I’m a changed woman.”

Nick considered her words in comfortable silence, the two slowly drinking their whiskey while exchanging soft, lingering smiles. It was reminiscent of the ‘good-ol-days’, but calmer. He said what she was already thinking. “I’ve changed too. We all have.”

Madelyn contemplated asking if he had any regrets, or if everything they had done was for the best when he silently gestured towards the newspaper draped across her lap. She glanced down, smirking at Piper’s headline. _Reunited!_

“She’s finally learned to reel it in,” she jested, looking over the picture of Shaun Pearlman—now eleven years old—standing with his parents, Nathan and Nora.

“After such headlines as _The Boogeyman Banished_ , and _The Synthetic Truth_ ,” Nick’s laughter was at the expense of their dearest reporter friend. “The article speaks for itself. It’ll take some adjusting, but the kid will be alright.”

Madelyn studied the family portrait again, focusing on their smiling, overjoyed faces. “It isn’t everyday that somebody gets a happy ending.”

“They’ve earned it,” Nick remarked, just the slightest hint of sorrow passing through his light green eyes. _Jenny_ —the heartache would never go away. He remained silent, but his smirk slowly returned, encouraging her to continue reading through the newspaper. 

Inside, there was a picture of Hancock— _John McDonough—_ formally announcing his plans to run for mayor in the 1959 election. He had already been working with the interim mayor after his brother’s death, ensuring that any lingering Institute corruption was snuffed out. His platform hadn’t changed much— _of the people, for the people_ —and judging by the large outpouring of support, a lot of Bostonians _dug_ what he was offering.

“Are you going to vote for him?” Madelyn teased, chuckling when Nick grumbled a sigh and rolled his eyes without an answer.

There was another article about Preston Garvey and his Minutemen, reclaiming their post in Quincy now that the Gunners had been successfully chased out of town. MacCready had found a place in their ranks, grinning like the sun was shining out of his ass in the group picture that accompanied the article. It was a good fit for the former mercenary, even if Preston was a little weary about accepting him at first. The network of neighborhood watchmen were supported by the newly reformed Boston Police, Sergeant Danny Sullivan himself promising to oversee their continued partnership.

Correction— _Deputy Chief Danny_ _Sullivan_ —earning quite the promotion after the fall of the Institute exposed and removed more corrupted individuals from power. He was running his own campaign, recruiting the best and brightest minds to fill the ranks throughout Boston’s precincts with the promise that integrity and stability were there to stay.

“Still have a long way to go,” Nick commented, his distrust of the system would linger too. “But it’s a start.”

Madelyn nodded in agreement, flicking her eyes to another one of Piper’s headlines— _Mr. Danse Goes to Washington_.

“He’s not going to be happy when he finds out about this,” she laughed.

“The Lieutenant will get over being compared to Jimmy Stewart,” Nick replied. “The man’s a war hero, isn’t he?”

Her laughter continued as she read over the article, trying not to imagine Lieutenant Danse in a comedic movie from the past, and instead as the dignified officer he was. The headline was tongue in cheek but accurate—he’d gone to Washington, D.C. to testify on capitol hill about what occurred at Fort Hagen between the Institute and the United States military. He’d also promised Nick and Madelyn that he’d watch over the federal investigation closely, ensuring another cover-up didn’t take place.

“Here,” Nick spoke, standing to snag a second, unseen _Publick Occurrences_ from his desk. “Special edition. Hot off the presses, as Piper would say.”

Madelyn exchanged copies with him, setting down her glass so she could examine the front headline closely. _Valentine and Hardy—The Unstoppables._

“So are you the _Silver Shroud_ or _The Inspector_?” she giggled, covering her mouth.

“Ha, ha, _Mistress of Mystery_ ,” he retorted sarcastically, sitting back down across from her.

There was a picture of them standing in front of the office building, the neon light of the agency sign burning brilliantly behind them. The longer she stared at it, the larger her smile became, warmth radiating through her body. She’d never felt more proud or honored to be a part of something important. She felt _at home_. 

“This is going to give you more exposure than you’ve ever had,” she remarked, tapping the paper with her fingers. “There’s going to be people lining out the door asking for your help!”

“ _Our_ help,” Nick corrected with a small smile, leaning forward in his chair. “That is, if you’re still up to the task of being my partner.”

“Of course Nick,” Madelyn answered immediately, unable to stop from grinning. “You’d be hard pressed to find a woman as willing as I am to put up with your brand of bullshit.”

He laughed, louder and heartier than she’d heard him sound in a long time. “Has anyone ever told you how _charming_ you are?”

Madelyn tilted her head to the side. “Funny you should mention that.”

The laughter settled into quiet mirth as Nick looked into his empty glass with a sigh. “I need a vacation first.”

“ _Really_?”

“Really,” he echoed. “Starting with a proper meal. Care to join me?”

Any other time and Madelyn would’ve said _yes_. She frowned as she shook her head. “I have a date.”

“That’s nothing to pout about,” Nick smirked. The detective— _her partner_ —regarded her with a warm smile. “I can forgive you this _one time_.”

The warmth had settled in her heart, and she wondered if she was glowing as she smiled at him, the happiest she’d felt in years. Nick reached over to gently clasp her hand, squeezing her fingers as he spoke. “It’s a good look, Madelyn.”

She stood up, leaning over the small distance to place a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thanks, Nick.”

“Sure, sure,” he watched her as she left, lingering only for a moment in the doorway. “See you later, doll.”   
  


* * *

  
Madelyn sat in the vinyl blue booth of the Slocum’s Joe, gazing out the window and watching as people passed by on the sidewalk. Cambridge wasn’t nearly as busy since the Institute’s downfall, but hundreds of people still called considered the Boston neighborhood their home—including her. She’d made occasional trips to her apartment in the last few weeks but had only recently started living in _D7_ again now that she was sure it was safe. Codsworth and Dogmeat were more than pleased to have her home, the Mister Handy unit suffering a bout of anxiety after being separated from his mistress—even if it shouldn’t have been possible with his programing. Even now, the robot had difficulty letting her out of his sight, and she laughed when she noticed Codsworth across the street, hovering about as he walked Dogmeat, a leash tied to one of his metal arms.

“What’s so funny?”

She glanced up to find Deacon setting down two cups of coffee before sliding into the booth across from her. Two sugars and a little bit of cream for her, straight black for him. He wasn’t in his usual suit, swapped out for something far more casual and befitting for summer, black wig left forgotten on her bedside table. Of course, he’d never leave without securing his sunglasses—his eyes were only for her to see.

Madelyn titled her head, gesturing out the window as she took a slow sip. “It seems I’m always destined to have somebody stalking me.”

“I take offense to that,” he held a hand over his chest, feigning attack from her teasing words. “To imply that I _stalked_ you.”

Madelyn struggled to contain her giggling behind her cup. “Hmm, and what _would_ you call it?”

“Careful observation from afar,” he said, brows furrowing for a moment as he inspected the contents of his coffee before taking a careful taste—always with the suspicion. _You can’t trust everyone_ , even the barista at their regular coffeehouse, it seemed. 

“What would you call it _now_?”

Deacon smirked at her flirtatious question. “An up-close and personal liaison.”

Madelyn smiled, her heart racing in excitement as it usually did when they danced around this subject. There still hadn’t been much of a discussion— _or a confession_ —since their infiltration of the Institute. No clear conversation about what their relationship meant. It didn’t stop them from acting like lovers, a constant stop-and-go ever since the evening she got shot, pausing when they needed to focus on the case instead of romance. Now that there were no more distractions, what she desperately yearned for was _full steam ahead_. She darted her eyes back out the window, forcing her mind to stop before she spiraled into anxiety and doubt. She was _happy_ —right?

Deacon’s hand reached over the table to cover hers. “Do you want to go to D.C.?”

She glanced back to his face, momentarily surprised by his question. Any joke she thought about making—that _everybody_ was going south—fell away. “With you?”

His expression faltered. “No, with Drummer Boy,” he said sarcastically. 

“I dunno,” she nervously laughed, humor the only defense mechanism she could rely on. “Robby makes for a pretty good date when you aren’t—”

“ _Charmer_ ,” he groaned, fingers tightening around hers, even though a smile dared to pull at his lips.

“Is this one of your business trips?” she persisted. “Or would this be for pleasure?”

“Why can’t it be both?” he responded, and it sounded witty enough, except all traces of humor had disappeared. “Can’t you tell when a guy is trying to be serious?”

Madelyn swallowed, and released a shaky breath. “What is it?”

Deacon didn’t say anything, and she was afraid she’d scared him off with her teasing. Minutes passed before he finally reached up and removed the darkened shades from his face, placing them on the table next to their forgotten coffee cups. Blue eyes locked on blue, but still, he remained silent.

“What do you want?” she prompted, slowly turning her hand over to lace their fingers. “Deacon?”

She’d seen that emotion in his eyes before—just last week—when he tried to tell her something _important_ , and she denied him the opportunity. This time, she wasn’t afraid.

“I want…”

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” she answered, filling the silence when he trailed off. His eyes widened, the shock quickly subsiding as a bright smile pulled at his lips. Madelyn knew it was a simple saying, but still translated. “I love you.”

“I—”

Not everyday that _Deacon_ was at a loss for words. He suddenly moved, slipping out from his side of the booth and swiftly sliding in to join her. Madelyn turned to meet him, laughing as the butterflies swarmed her stomach like she was experiencing this— _love—_ again, all for the first time. He leaned in close so only she could hear.

“Je t’aime,” he repeated with an ever-growing smile. “I love you too.”

There was nothing left to say, so he kissed her instead. Madelyn smiled against his lips, sighing when his arms wrapped around her in a warm embrace. Deacon was still grinning when they parted, eyes shining with an emotion she wanted to keep there forever. He pulled her close, and she rested her head against his shoulder, switching her gaze back outside.

The sun was shining, and she was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s all she wrote! Dig that sequel hook sending our central cast to DC! Something is always cooking in the kitchen, says I. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has followed along on this wonderful, amazing journey! I am still in a state of WTF bliss that it's all over. I've never completed anything of this magnitude, (research, plot development, etc) in such amount of time...or ever! I'll keep it brief: thank you to anyone who left a kudos, commented (provided art!!!!) and talked with me over on tumblr :) You kept me inspired to keep going :) 
> 
> As mentioned/teased, there will be future stories set in this universe~ 
> 
> One last “The More You Know”: James Stewart was the highest-ranking actor in American military history, promoted to brigadier general in 1959. (Which is higher than Lieutenant, so Danse should be happy to be compared to him!)
> 
> Say hello over on tumblr @ potatocrab! 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


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